


The Lion's Roar: Ruby Dawn

by Covenmouse



Series: The Lion's Roar [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, F/F, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Fix-It of Sorts, Goddess Byleth, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, just bear in mind the relationship categories, lots of minor relationships that i'll tag for if they become relevant, seriously you don't understand this candle is going to drip for years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 54,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23932315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Covenmouse/pseuds/Covenmouse
Summary: Since waking up devoid of memory and self, Byleth has wandered the world at her father's side without ever truly feeling part of it. Her dreams, devoid of everything but a young girl asleep upon a jade throne, have done nothing to help her sense of isolation. Neither has her father. She's often wondered why he's taken such pains to keep her separate from the church and their doings. When a chance encounter with the Church's Knights coincides with the waking of her dreamland guardian, Byleth realizes she may get all the answers she's ever wanted, and far too many more.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Jeralt Reus Eisner/My Unit | Byleth's Mother, Jeralt Reus Eisner/Original Character(s)
Series: The Lion's Roar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1454557
Comments: 69
Kudos: 92





	1. P1, CH1; Whispers of a Demon

# Part One: The Masks we Wore

> _‘Now the pale morning sings of forgotten things_ _  
> _ _She plays a tune for those who wish to overlook_ _  
> _ _The fact that they've been blindly deceived_ _  
> _ _By those who preach and pray and teach_ _  
> _ _But she falls short and the night explodes in laughter_
> 
> _But don't you come here and say I didn't warn you_ _  
> _ _About the way your world can alter_  
>  _And oh how you try to command it all still_  
>  _Every single time it all shifts one way or the other’_
> 
>   
>  _-First Aid Kit,_ The Lion’s Roar

##  **CHAPTER ONE: Whispers of a Demon**

**Day 13 Great Tree Moon, Year 1180**

It isn’t the first time Byleth has had this dream, not by far. It always begins with the girl; the one who will not wake.

The girl lies curled upon the throne above Byleth. Her hair is the green of fresh spring grass, and her ears stretch out far past her head, ending in delicate points. More outlandish still are her clothes; far too light and breezy for the chilly climate of the area. Even in summer, Byleth could barely imagine wearing such a thing, though that may be due more to her own modesty than inclement weather. 

All those details pale next to the strangeness of the throne itself; old, and seemingly sculpted from a single piece of jade that’s gone crusty and clouded for want of care. The stairs leading to the throne’s dais are much the same; dark green jade the colour of deep forests, run through with bands of seafoam and a softer, pearlescent green that seem to shift shades ever so slightly when Byleth moves around the room. 

The floor changes from dream to dream, Byleth believes. It is difficult to remember, once she’s awake, but while she’s dreaming she’s certain it does. 

Sometimes the floor is made of cracked and pocked old jade with little in the way of relief. Other times, like now, the mosaic is done up in multitudinous colour and patterns which reminds her of her father’s folk tales about the changing of the months. 

Looking at the floor now, she hears her father’s voice and mouths his words alongside him.

"The icy winds of the Oghma Mountains have begun to scatter, and the verdant fields once again spring to life across Fodlan, heralding the start of a new year. As they celebrate the dawning year, the people pray that they may realize their full potential just as a tiny sprout hopes to one day grow into a great tree."

She turns from her survey of the ever-shifting throne room floor to the columns that stretch off into a black eternity behind and around them. There is no ceiling here. No walls. Past a certain point everything dissolves into this darkness.

That’s fine for a dream, but something about the depth of it has always unsettled her. This darkness feels less like an absence of light, and more like a demonic beast waiting in ambush; like a dream that yearns to become a nightmare. 

It wants something from her. She doesn’t know what. Doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to be here at all, in this strange place, with this even stranger, unwaking girl. 

A shiver runs down Byleth’s spine. She whirls around to find the girl, at long last, has opened one eye to her. It is terrible in its familiarity. 

“You should really wake up,” the girl murmurs in the sleepy, soft voice of a child, which she is not, “They’re almost here.”

All at once, the world is black around Byleth in a gentler sort of way; broken by the faintest orange flicker against the backs of her eyelids. She can hear the gentle crashing of lake waves against the piles beneath the dock where she was waiting, propped against a stack of crates. The air smells of fish, sun-bleached wood, and water. 

Footsteps alight upon the pier behind her, growing slowly, steadily louder as they approach. 

“You're sure the boat’s here? I don’t see nothing,” grunts a gruff, feminine voice. 

“It’s where I left it,” snaps a masculine voice. “Should be right at the end, there.”

“And if it ain’t? They’re right behind us, Tim. We can’t go back. You’re walking us right into a dead end.”

“Did you miss the part where there’s a whole bloody big lake at the end of this?” 

A third voice, also masculine, but reedier and whinier, interjects, “You can’t expect us to swim across that!”

“I expect you to row it,” says Tim. “But if the boat ain’t there, no, you dimwit. We’re not swimming. No one’d survive that, least of all you. If the boat ain’t there, then we get in the water and double back through the piles all quiet-like. Should be able to reach the shallows and get down the shore a-ways before they realize what we done. Steal a couple horses and the bootlickers will never find us.”

“But what about the fish!”

“You don’t have open wounds, do you? Man up, and deal with it. They won’t bite if you don’t provoke them.”

It’s a decent plan, Byleth has to admit. It would maybe have even worked out for them, if her father hadn’t anticipated them having a boat at the docks. That, and the sheer cowardice of their leader. Tim. Timothy Harper. The man who’d put this entire crew together, who, it seemed, was now abandoning the majority of them to save his own hide.

She opens her eyes. 

By the light of the intermittent torches set along the pier, Byleth has a full view of the empty dock at the end where the trio’s boat had once been. The same boat she’d cut loose when she arrived, and kicked off into the waters. Then she’d found a spot to sit and wait, hidden behind cargo crates where no one would see her until she wanted them to. 

Her fishing pole, set into an iron ring embedded in the dock, remains in the water; quiet; empty. She’s probably lost the bait. Ah, well. She can always find more.

The trio is nearly on top of her, now. Another few steps and they’ll see her feet. She has to move. She has to do her job.

Byleth takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what must be done. Her expression locks down; what little bit of puzzlement she’d been wearing slips away like the threads of the dream she’d been having, until all that remains is the last face her enemies will ever see; a countenance as impassive and unflinching as stone.

Enemies. Is that what these three are? 

They are certainly crooked individuals, with their tendency to strong-arm helpless travelers out of goods and coin, and their pressing upon the locals for “protection” fees. Robbing them of house and home; of liberty and safety. But _enemies_? That’s a strong word. Too strong, she thinks, for the likes of them.

They startle and yelp when she stands, moving from behind the crates and into their path with two easy steps. The big one at the center—Tim; she’d bet on it—holds his arms out to shove the other two behind him as he forces them several paces backward. Perhaps he isn’t as uncaring as she thought, at least where these two are considered. Byleth almost feels bad for what’s about to happen. Then his eyes narrow. 

Those beady, dark eyes drag the length of her form, up and down as though he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. It’s a reaction she’s used to, along with the sneer that follows. 

“It’s just a girl,” he grunts, as though he hadn’t been the one who was scared. Straightening to his full height—a fair foot and some several inches greater than her own—he steps forward again, the better to intimidate his newfound prey. “Step aside, brat, and thank the Goddess we don’t have time for you.”

Byleth sighs through her nose. She never should have hoped for something different, she supposes. That’s her fault.

His eyes widen, and his fellows shriek in alarm, when the sword he’d never even noticed pierces through his stomach and grates along the bones of his spine. Byleth yanks it free and whirls, severing his jugular with a fluid, merciful stroke. A kick to his sternum sends his corpse toppling backward toward the other two bandits. 

The smaller man, who she now sees is older, with salt-and-pepper hair and ink stains on his fingers where callouses ought to be, stumbles, and falls as he turns to run. He scrambles on hands and knees to get away; to find a pile he can pull himself up against. 

The woman is faster on the draw, and visibly less inclined to write Byleth off as ‘just a girl.’ She has her sword up before Byleth reaches her. The iron clashes between them, sending pleasant tingles of pain racing up Byleth’s arms. 

“You’re one of them, ain’t you,” the woman pants. “The mercs? They employ children, now, is that it? And they call _us_ the monsters.”

Byleth drops into a whirl, sweeping her leg out where the woman’s feet had been a moment before, but the bandit jumped. Byleth rolls to one side as the woman’s sword plunges into the wood behind her. 

Byleth pops back onto her feet as the woman struggles to free her blade. Though curses rain like a storm upon the sword, it doesn’t budge. 

Wordlessly, Byleth steps around the woman’s backside as she switches to a single handed hold and draws her dagger. The woman turns to parry the sword-thrust with her bare arms, screaming for the effort and the blood pouring out of her sliced flesh. Byleth finishes her with a quick spike of her dagger through the throat, and back out. Easy as butter. 

Behind her, the man who’s been standing there, clutching a pile and frozen with the terror and horror of what he’s witnessed, relieves himself upon the pier. Byleth turns to him, glancing impassively at the ink stains on his fingers. He isn’t a fighter, that much is obvious. Even brigands have their bookkeepers. That doesn’t make them any less complicit. 

“No, please—” the man whispers. And it’s done. He drops to the pier like a bag of potatoes. His blood pools out, mingling with his fellows’ and soaking into the old wood. Beneath the docks, the water thrashes with carnivorous things drawn to potential food. 

She takes the time to clean her blades upon their clothes before sheathing them. With a small hatchet, she claims one finger from each of the two nameless bandits, and places those inside an oil-skinned pouch before relieving the corpses of all their money and the items that could be worth selling. Then she pushes the bodies into the water, causing a great deal more thrashing. Perhaps the villagers won’t like it, but Byleth doesn’t care. The animals deserve to eat as much as anyone else. 

When she reaches Tim’s corpse, Byleth pauses to examine the cut of his clothing and gear. It’s a step above the average bandit’s, though it wasn’t made explicitly for him like the gear of an ex-soldier’s would be. No, this is all stolen, she thinks, or least-ways bought second hand. Almost certainly the right Tim, then. She leaves his body alone, and returns to her fishing.

About half-an-hour later the sky is growing lighter above the eastern shore, a fog is rising above the lake, the screaming within the village proper has diminished to a buzz of conversation, and another set of bootsteps lights upon the pier. 

“Bye?”

“Here,” she calls, as she reels the third fish she’s caught since she chummed the water. 

The bootsteps come closer. A mountain of a man looms out of the fog, one hand upon the sword hilt hung at his side. He pauses when he reaches the remaining corpse, turning the head up with the toe of his boot to better inspect the man’s face. “This is him, then?”

“Might be. Leastways, they called him Tim. Unless you found another.”

“No. Coward ran off. Left his men on their own in the village.”

“No one else came this way.” She baits another line and casts it back in before correcting herself, “Just him, his accountant, and one other. Bodyguard. Lover, maybe.”

The mountain turns his head this way and that, looking for signs of the other two corpses. Then he steps to the edge of the dock, and looks down. “I see. Well done.”

Byleth hums a soft note, and inclines her head in thanks. She really doesn’t want his praise for this, and she knows he doesn’t want to give it but feels obligated, somehow. Silence falls, as it always does in these moments, and she resolutely ignores the squelching of coagulated blood, and snapping of bone as the man finishes the separation of Tim’s head from the rest of his body. 

“Did he have anything on him?”

“Some coin. A very nice dagger. His boots might fit you.”

“I’ll pass.” Another quiet moment as he rolls Tim’s body into the water opposite her fishing spot. “Reel it in, and meet us in the square. We should get back to Myrddin before midday.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

### #

Jeralt’s Strikers are gathered in the main square alongside several villagers in varying stages of shock. By the time Byleth has collected her fish and joined them, they’ve already piled the bandit’s bodies at the center of town. She isn’t sure what the villagers are going to do with them all, but that isn’t really her concern. Each of the bodies is missing a finger; that’s what matters.

Her father stands near the church, speaking with a man wearing black robes gone grey with age and washing, and lined in a tarnished looking silver. Byleth’s steps slow to a pause. 

She isn’t allowed near churches, nor the robed people who work inside them. Byleth doesn’t know why, precisely. Jeralt won’t tell her, and no one else seems to understand, either. She suspects, however, that it has to do with an incident several years before, when she was budding on womanhood and a clergyman took issue with the large mercenary and his tiny shadow.

Apparently, most people—particularly parents—found it difficult to believe anyone would be gouache enough to enlist their own child into a Company’s ranks. When the priest saw impossibly tall, impossibly wide Jeralt with his sun-coloured hair and dark eyes parading around a tiny, deceptively fraile girl of dark hair and sky-coloured eyes who didn’t resemble the merc in even the smallest of ways, he’d assumed the worst. There’d been quite a scene over it, and a town that was still on the Company’s slim but firm do-not-travel list. 

That seems an odd reason to bar her from churches, she has to admit, but it’s the best explanation she has available. No matter the truth of it all, she can’t approach her father now, and she doesn’t see his second, Luca, anywhere. There’s no one else she feels comfortable announcing her presence to. Besides, there are fish to cook. 

With that in mind, she turns toward the gates, intending to walk back the half-mile down the road to where they left their mounts with an auxiliary guard. 

As she nears the wooden city wall that’s done nothing to keep either bandits or mercenaries at bay, Byleth begins to notice the weight of eyes upon her. Most of the Strikers are used enough to her presence that they normally wouldn’t bother staring, but the villagers are not. Many watch her with expressions mixed between disgust and anger, but others are watching her fish with greedy, wanting eyes. It seems strange, given that these came from their own harbour, until she considers how long the bandits were interred here, and how many of them there’d been. They’d probably been shortening the food supplies. Coupled with villagers’ fear of leaving their homes, it was likely they hadn’t been doing much fishing. 

Frowning, Byleth turns to the first wasted looking woman she sees who’s accompanied by several children clinging to her tattered skirt. 

Byleth makes to hand her the line of fish, but the woman draws back, shoving her children firmly behind her in the process. They stay this way as the woman’s fear gradually gives way to disbelief, then confusion as her gaze darts spasmodically between Byleth’s face and her offering.

“Want them cooked, do you?”

The question isn’t precisely what Byleth anticipated. She glances at her fish, and then back to the woman. “I thought you might like to have them.”

Somehow, that only seems to make things worse. The woman draws her children back, brow furrowing tempestuously. “We don’t—” 

One of the children hiccups wetly, and another whisper-whines something about “Mother” and “hungry.” The woman’s face softens by degrees, though there remains a hard line of trepidation about her mouth and shoulders which speaks volumes. She gingerly accepts the line of fish. 

“We don’t have much left to offer—,” the woman starts again, and Byleth stops her with a shake of her head.

“We’ve been paid enough.”

This time, she’s rewarded with a tight but thankful smile.

Still, it’s painfully clear her presence is making the woman uncomfortable. Byleth is used to that. Rather than continuing the awkward exchange, she leaves. As she continues the way to the gate, she hears it begin; the gossip. 

“Looks like the demon has a heart after all.” The muttering is coming from a cluster of the season’s new recruits milling around the gate. Of course it is. 

“I dunno. I heard she took on three by herself. Not even a scratch on her. Who goes fishing after that kind of slaughter?”

Another snorts. “I saw the bodies at the docks, floating in the water. She used them as bait.”

The first voice audibly flinches. “Goddess, I take it back. That’s cold. Even for us.”

Byleth pushes her way out the gate, and doesn’t look back.

### #

“I thought I told you to meet us in the square,” says her father, when he and the main Strikers’ force return to their makeshift campsite half-a-candlemark later. 

Byleth, busy currying his horse into contentment, does not turn to look at him. “The villagers didn’t want me there.”

“Those villagers didn’t want anyone there after what they went through. It had nothing to do with you, or me, or anyone but those people we put down tonight.” Jeralt sighs. “An order is an order, Bye. We would’ve left ages ago if I hadn’t been waiting on you.”

“Would you have preferred I approach you at the church?”

“You know those weren’t your only options.” He shakes his head, patting the horse’s rump as he leans down over his daughter. In his sheltering shadow, Byleth looks up at him. 

Jeralt pauses, taking in the brightness of his daughter’s eyes, and the way her nose and cheeks have flushed pink for want of tears she will never let fall. She’s a strong girl, but even strong girls break and he doesn't know what will happen when she finally does. 

“Are those bandits really worth all this?” he asks, keeping his voice low. 

It isn’t the bandits that have gotten beneath her skin, which is part of the problem. Perhaps matters between her and the rest of the Strikers would be easier if she shed tears over her kills. She feels remorse for them, sure. That’s why she shuts down all her emotions on the battlefield. Remorse; guilt; grief; these all lead to hesitation. She can’t afford hesitation. That was her first, and most hard-won lesson. Hesitation gets you killed, or worse. Or both, in her case.

The scar at the back of her head itches as she thinks about it, and the life that blow stole from her nine years ago. 

If Byleth is honest with herself, however, that isn’t her only reason for clamping down upon her real emotions; on her quietness and inability to speak her mind in mixed company. It isn’t even the primary reason.

Those bandits? They chose their fates. Perhaps death was a tall price to pay for their crimes. Who was she to say, really? But if she hadn’t been there, someone else would have been. It was only a matter of time. 

The more important point is that she’s never cruel to them. She never lets them suffer. She doesn’t celebrate the slaughter, or rejoice in the violence like some of the mercenaries she’s met over the years. Who cares if she fed some corpses to the fish? The fish deserve to eat, just as much as those children, or her, or anyone. 

And anyway, why should their deaths matter when the lives of their victims never seemed to matter to them? It’s only fair that they die as their victims died; beneath someone else’s unflinching blade.

Why should she be upset over it? Why bother with tears or shouting or pretending that life doesn’t go one? People die. The world continues turning. Being bothered by this inevitability is a waste of time and energy. 

Even as she thinks these things, Byleth knows they’re why she’s “wrong.” These thoughts are the precise reason no one ever believes she’s human. She’s figured that much out over these past nine years, though she can’t be sure what precise definition of “human” everyone else is using. Last she checked, she was just as human as anyone else. 

Either way, her reactions are wrong. Her reasoning, wrong. Always wrong. Even if she doesn’t understand why.

“No,” she finally says, because that is what Jeralt wants to hear. Refusing again to meet his eyes, she returns to her horse. “I’ll let Luca know, next time.”

“That—” Jeralt scoffs, and hangs his head. “Alright. Fine. I can see I’m not winning this one. But Bye--”

Whatever he was going to say, Jeralt seems to think better of it. Instead, he wanders off into camp to oversee the rest of the Company’s preparations. A moment later, another presence takes his place. 

“Hey there, Kiddo,” drawls a familiar voice. 

Byleth risks another glance up as Luca, her father’s second-in-command, drapes himself over the horse’s back to watch her. Unlike her father, Luca is tall but slender; more wire and whipcord than bulking muscle. He’s already taken the time to wash the sweat from his face and hair, as evidenced by the lingering dampness turning his hair and short, well-cropped beard from a dark violet to pitch black in the burgeoning dawn. 

Luca’s lovely, easy smile breaks a line of white across his dark complected face; his usual good humor radiating from the creases around his mouth, and the twinkling in his otherwise tired, sore eyes. “I saw you gave away our breakfast.”

Byleth, though her brow puckers in consternation at this mixed signal, ducks her head to hide the briefest smile at his approval. “I caught them with bodies. Didn’t think you’d want any.”

“With bodies?” Luca’s brow raises. “That works, does it?”

“Here. There’s this type of carnivorous fish Dad taught me about. Black-bellied Sharktooth. They come up the river around this time of year. Voracious. Quick to bite, if you use fresh meat. They’re good. A bit salty, but good. Just expensive to catch. Usually.”

Expensive when you had to use other game to catch them. Byleth knows the fishermen along the river consider them a nuisance, and not without cause. A dangerous nuisance at that, though they usually didn’t go after anything that wasn’t either bleeding already, or otherwise thrashing about. 

“So why didn’t you keep them?”

She shrugs. “The kids looked hungry.”

He sighs wistfully. “They did at that.” 

Byleth risks another glance, catching the way the corners of his mouth dip as he looks off toward the distant village. Faint wailing drifts upon the wind as the villagers’ grief explodes in the face of all that’s happened. “I could probably stay nearby a bit. Catch a few more. Meet you in Myrddin?”

“I doubt your dad will go for that, this time,” he says with gentle apology. “Not even for good fishing.”

Byleth thinks this is a curious way of putting it. “We have another job lined up, do we?”

Luca nods. “We’re heading into Charon after we turn over this bounty. Jer doesn’t like it, but it’s the best option we have if we want to get paid again before hitting the north-east coast.”

Byleth’s stomach goes sour; all thoughts of breakfast permanently shut down. “It isn’t another rebellion, is it?”

“No,” Luca assures her. “I don’t think it’s the job that has him so bothered, though. More the route we have to take to get there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only sensible way from here to there is along the Monastery road.”

Byleth frowns deeply, turning a worried look up at Luca. The man presses one balled fist against his cheek, lifting a single dark purple brow as he meets her gaze. They’re both well aware how Jeralt is about the Church, and suddenly Byleth knows why her father is so insistent about keeping her on leash today. Even if she doesn’t understand it at all.

“Do you know what his deal is?”

“Wish I did.” Luca hums a wistful note. He gives Byleth another odd look and adds, very quietly, “You know, you’re a good kid, Bye. The new blood will see that soon enough, and we’ll be back to normal before you know it.”

The smile erases itself from her face. She stuffs the curry comb into her saddlebag and begins adding a few braids to her the creature’s mane. “I’m fine, Luca.”

“And I’m not pretending, or trying to bolster you, like you clearly think I am. If you’d just show them a bit more of that pretty smile of yours, you’d see. Maybe try talking to some of them?”

Byleth shrugs as though his suggestion doesn’t irritate her. It isn’t that simple. She’s tried smiling. She’s tried talking. Neither has never worked. Not once. When she smiles, people just call her ‘creepy’, and gossip about her ‘soulless eyes.’ When she speaks, everything she says is _wrong_. 

Granted, it’s been a while since she’s made a real effort. These days, she prefers to keep to herself; keep her own council, and never lets anyone close enough to hurt her. 

For a brief second she flashes back to the village, and the things being said as she left. But… no. No, they hadn’t hurt her. Not _really_. They couldn’t. She wouldn’t allow it.

“Just think on it, Kiddo. All I’m asking.” Luca ruffles her hair, and leaves her alone. Byleth sighs inwardly—both glad and sad for his leaving—finishes with her horse, and moves on to her father’s. 

### #

They make Myrddin just shy of noon. Jeralt takes the collected fingers and Tim’s severed head to present to the local marshal, setting the rest of the company free upon the city with orders to cross the great Myrddin Bridge and regroup in a field just off its base by nightfall. Byleth is ordered to heel, and Luca falls into step beside them without being explicitly invited. 

A large city by the standards of the nameless village they’d passed through that morning, though only middling by the standards of Enbarr or Derdriu, Myrddin was a-buzz with activity through the upper market streets that slope their way casually uphill towards a castle nestled at the peak. The buildings on this side of town are mostly brick and stone at their bases, with overhanging upper floors in wood and plaster. Everything is built so tightly together you could reach out one’s window and touch the adjacent neighbor’s pane.

Gas lamps light the dangerous underbelly of these structures, fixed to the wooden pillars which support them, and illuminating the market stalls spread in the shadows. People are everywhere, hawking goods and shouting orders above the din. Children run around and through people’s legs; some at play, and others at work. Byleth is sure to keep a hand over the money pouch at her belt. 

She really needn’t have worried. Despite the crowds, the mercenaries with their stained leathers and grisly prizes on full display are given a wide berth as they march ever upward. 

“I still think we should backtrack through Daphnel territory,” Jeralt grumbles as they pass behind the city’s cathedral. This one is much larger, and more decorative than the one they’d seen in the village that morning, with proper stained glass in the windows and a bell tower to toll the hours and hymns. “There’s always highwaymen a-foot on that path. Most have bounties.”

“There’s always highwaymen because it’s long as ass, barely qualifies as a road, and they use it as a hideout, not hunting grounds. Besides, it’s _Daphnel_ territory. The bounties will be a pittance, at best,” argues Luca without any real heat. He sounds tired enough that Byleth suspects they’ve had this argument at least once already. “By the time we get into Faerghus that way, the Charon job will have turned to smoke. Are we going to subsist on pissant bounties all the way to the Rhodos Coast? You know the kids aren’t gonna like that” 

“The ‘kids’ knew we had a march ahead when we started out last month. It’s a harvest year. I had half a mind to stay camped up until the Empire starts harassing the border again.” 

Byleth doesn’t necessarily disagree with his regret in that sector. Unfortunately, all three of them are aware how badly the Company needs work. Last winter had hit them hard after a bad campaign in the swamplands along the south of Fodlan’s throat. They’d lost a quarter of the Company to disease alone, and got to their winter camp too late to stock it properly before the snows set in. That was, in part, why there were so many new faces among their number this spring. So many new people for her to contend with. 

Jeralt rubs the back of his neck. “They don’t know about Charon, yet. Not unless you’ve been telling tales again.”

“I’m hurt. Wounded, even.” Luca shakes his head. “No. I haven’t been telling any tales to anyone but our Bye, here, and we all know she’s got a steel trap in place of a mouth.”

Byleth cuts Luca a look across her father’s great bulk between them, and he winks in return. 

“If they don’t know about the job, then they won’t know the difference if we lose it.”

There was barely a pause in the conversation, but when Luca next spoke his voice had lost all its joviality. “Aye. They won’t. But I will.” 

Jeralt halts in place, making several other pedestrians come to sudden stops of their own that leave them swearing until they get an eyeful of the man in their path. One scowl is all it takes to send them running, then Jeralt stalks into a nearby ally, leaving Luca and Byleth to follow in his wake. 

Overhung with dripping laundry, and lined with piles of refuse, the alley is a great, reeking mess that barely fits both men facing one another. Byleth hangs near the front, back to a wall and watching this play out with some curiosity. 

Jeralt crosses his arms over his wide chest, brushing Luca’s in the process. “You’re going to make a thing of this?”

“Don’t give me that,” Luca says, voice a rictus of resignation. He does not back up or edge away as some might have. “I’d like to think you brought me on just for my good looks, but we both know it’s because you need someone to call you on your bullshit. This here? This is your bullshit, Jer. You need to get over it.”

“You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“If I don’t, it’s because you won’t tell me. Byleth may not look much like you, but she sure as shit has your lock-jaw. I know you left them, and I don’t disagree about not taking church jobs in general. They’re the worst; always. But if you’re gonna keep screwing with the Company’s pockets when it comes to any job near Garreg Mach, I think we deserve an explanation.” 

Some of the hard edge to Luca’s voice trails away as he adds, more softly, “I deserve an explanation. After all this time, it’s the least you can give me.” 

The alley is quiet after that declaration. Slowly, Byleth turns a pirouette to face the street outside, putting her back to the two men who only have eyes for each other. 

She’s aware that they’re more than coworkers and have been for some years, though they’ve never put a title to whatever it is they’re doing. Still, Luca’s been almost like a second father to her since… well, since as far back as she can remember. And yet, _this_? This feels a little too personal for her to be witnessing.

Even if she would love to hear Jeralt’s explanation for herself.

As if on cue, her father says, “Bye?”

“Mm?”

“You read the contract on this one, right?”

“I always do.”

“Good. I need you to make the drop-off.” 

She frowns. “I don’t handle clients.” They always freak out when they inevitably realize who they’re dealing with.

“You’re an adult. It’s time you start.”

Well, this is a mighty change from ten minutes ago when he’d been ordering her around like a dog. She whirls back around, intent on saying something to that effect, but one look at Luca’s face cools her rising temper. He’s strained and exhausted, and begging her with his eyes to just take the win, however unearned it might feel. 

They need to talk. Privately. About something that most definitely concerns her. 

And if she argues, no one is getting an explanation. At least this way there’s a chance Luca will share the information later, when Jeralt is out of earshot.

“Fine. Sure.”

She holds out her hands. Jeralt deposits the bloody canvas bag into one, and the smaller, less obviously bloody oiled-leather bag into the other. Still, she waits for some greater explanation of what she’s meant to do.

Nothing comes. Jeralt and Luca only have eyes for each other, the air filled with an electrostatic haze of all the things they aren’t currently saying to each other because she hasn’t left yet. 

Taking a deep breath, Byleth mutters a second, “Fine,” and turns to go. 

She makes it as far as the alley before Jeralt calls, as she’d known he would, “And Bye? Do not go near the church.”

Shaking her head at his order—which he does not seem to notice—Byleth re-enters the crowded street and continues her way up to the castle. 

### #

Byleth’s nerves grow with every step closer she gets to the edifice rising from the hilltop. She’s witnessed Jeralt make drop offs a hundred times before. Technically, she’s also handled them a few times, back when they thought that might work. It’s just that she’s never done this without supervision, and even then, it’s been a long while. None of that is without reason. 

As proven earlier that morning, Byleth doesn’t do well speaking with non-mercenary folk. Honestly, she doesn’t do well speaking with mercenary folk, either. It’s only family she’s ever been able to freely speak her mind around, and even that is a challenge at times

Perhaps she wasn’t like that once, before the blow that ended her first life. Maybe that is why Jeralt is so sure she’ll be able to handle it one day. Byleth doesn’t know, and in the moment she just wants it all over with.

It doesn’t help that the Lord’s men guarding the gate won’t take her request to see the marshal seriously until she uncovers Tim’s head for them to see. After that, it’s a quick trot up to his office through the servants’ corridors, flanked by two large boys in metal suits which they think will keep them safe. They wouldn’t, if she had her mind to violence. The fact that she knows this leaves her troubled, and a little proud. Neither feeling is helpful.

They find the marshal sitting behind a large oaken desk covered in sealed reports. There’s enough there to account for the last two winters. He makes her wait as he finishes drafting a reply to one missive or another, salts the letter and seals it. Only then, does the marshal look up with cool, disapproving eyes.

“I was expecting Captain Jeralt,” the marshal says, slowly. “Did something happen in the field?”

“The Captain’s been unavoidably detained,” Byleth tells him. He doesn’t offer her a seat, so she doesn’t take one. She wouldn’t have, even if he did. Standing, she’s only an inch taller than him at his rest. If she were to take a chair, he would tower over her, and somehow, she does not see that making her position any better. Especially as he knows what she sees: a chubby-cheeked, wide-eyed teenager. Hardly the sort of person to inspire confidence in the Company’s abilities or common sense. 

In an effort to forestall any further small talk, Byleth lifts the canvas bag and deposits it upon the only open space on the man’s desk: directly in front of him. 

The marshal grimaces and opens the bag. His nose wrinkles. 

“This is the bandit known as Timothy Harper? You’re certain?”

“I am.”

The marshal grunts, closes the bag up, and gestures for one of his men at arms to take it. “What of his men?”

Byleth opens the oiled pouch and dumps the trophy fingers, one from each of the bandits, in the same bloody spot that Tim’s head had occupied. The marshal closes his eyes, visibly counting to ten, before he reopens them to the mess. “Thank you, my dear,” he says through gritted teeth. “And this is all of them?”

“Yes—Oh. No.” She slips the two she’d collected from her own side pouch and adds them to the pile. “There. That would be all of them.”

The marshal, and the two of his men remaining in the office, are staring at her. She quirks an eyebrow, daring them to comment.

Unfortunately, the marshal takes her up on that offer. “What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.”

“Indulge me.”

Byleth takes a calming breath, keeping her mask—her shield from the judgement of the world—in place. “Byleth Eisner.”

“Eisner? As in Captain Jeralt Eisner?”

She nods.

“I wasn’t aware he had a… daughter,” the man says in a way that sounds suspiciously like a question. It’s close enough to not that Byleth doesn’t feel the need to answer it. She simply stares until he shifts uncomfortably, and looks once more at the pile.

“So, then, that will be, ah, I believe it was two-hundred-and-fifty aureus.”

“Three-hundred-and-one aureus, and five denarii.”

“Excuse me?”

“Our contract states two-hundred-and-fifty for their leader, which we have, plus forty denarii a piece for each of his underlings, as proved by their fingers. There are thirty-two there. I converted the denarii into aureus for your ease of payment, but we’ll be happy to accept silver if you’d prefer.”

The marshal’s expression closes off. He asks, voice a little too friendly to be real, “Not copper?” 

“No.”

The marshal scoffs with grim humor and sits back in his chair. The faintest of smiles alights upon his lips. “And who’s to say you didn’t double up on those fingers, mm? Or triple? Sixteen is an awfully large number for simple bandits, much less thirty-two.”

“You should have thought of that before you penned the contract. We’d have been happy to bring back hands, if that would better assure their individuality.”

The man’s eyes narrow as he considers her. “Yes, you would have been, wouldn’t you?” 

“I could still, if you prefer. I doubt the villagers have disposed of the bodies, as yet. Though the ones we left in the water may be… lacking in some elements of flesh.”

One of the guards was looking slightly ill. The marshal continued to stare, nearly as impassive as Byleth herself. When he doesn’t speak, she shrugs and adds, “There will, of course, be additional charges for my time and labour.”

“I believe I recognize you, now,” the marshal says slowly. “You’re that one. The Ashen Demon. Aren’t you?”

Byleth says nothing, as the marshal’s guards visibly start and go pale. 

“They said the Demon was young, but I didn’t think…”

“If you could please settle our bill, I will be happy to leave you to your work, Ser.”

“Ah. Yes. Three-hundred-and-one, you said?”

“And five denarii.”

“And five denarii,” the marshal repeats with a quiet disapproval he no longer dares to put into words. That’s fine. He can believe she’s being greedy so long as he pays what’s due.

In a matter of moments she’s been given a fat purse, and a clear path to the door. 

### #

The boys in armor shadow her all the way down to the bailey, pausing with her inside an archway as she makes a quick count of the purse’s contents. She wasn’t rude enough to do this in front of the marshal himself, but she prefers having the guards as witnesses in case there is anything amiss. Sure, they could always lie, but if there is one thing her unwanted nickname is good for, it was ensuring that most people wouldn’t dare. 

As she counts, a clatter from the bailey draws her attention. 

A black and gold carriage sits in the bailey yard, waiting on the pair of matching black geldings being fastened to the harness. A line of servants loads the top with a variety of luggage. Byleth is about to turn away in disinterest when she notices the symbol painted in gold leaf upon the carriage doors. It’s a dragon, twisted about the spire of a tower with a peacock-feather sigil at its center. 

Byleth’s stomach sinks. Though she spies no priests loitering about the yard, that symbol belongs to the Church. Ergo, so do the carriages. And the luggage. And whomever is about to get into said carriages. 

She dumps her fistful of coins back into the pouch, draws it tight, and shoves it down beneath her leather cuirass and linen undershirt to rest uncomfortably between her breasts. It makes for a suspicious lump in the leather, but if a pickpocket is close enough to get their hands on that, then she’s either too dead to care, or about to be.

Just before she slips from the archway to make her escape, the doors to the great hall swing open and several people in church colours appear. 

Byleth stops, easing back into the shadows as she wars with indecision. On one hand, Jeralt will be pissed if he finds out she didn’t get away from them as fast as she could. On the other, he’d sent her up here, and she’d had no way of knowing there would be Church officials about. Who could blame her for being cautious and remaining hidden until they were gone?

If she got a better look at who was taking the carriage in the meantime, well… could he blame her for being curious? 

Yes. Absolutely, he could. He would! 

She was still staying. 

From the way Jeralt carried on, all Church officials might as well be monsters or demonic beasts. Though she’d never seen anything wrong with the ones she’d caught glimpses of over the years, Byleth greatly anticipates the day one will turn into a ravenous demon before her eyes.

Behind her, the two guards exchange odd looks and say nothing.

Three of the quartet descending the stairs into the bailey yard are young. In fact, based on their physical appearance and voices, she thinks they’re probably around her own age. Whatever that is. 

Each of the three wears a black uniform with gold trim, and a half-cape in a signature colour draped across their shoulder. The significance is not lost to Byleth, who understands just enough about politics at large to gauge that the two boys are from Faerghus and the Alliance, respectively, and the girl must be an Imperial. 

The last of their order, far older than the rest, is a thin man dressed in a respectable set of leathers. He’s clean cut, with a trim beard and silver at his temples. Otherwise, he’s entirely unremarkable and seemingly disinterested in joining in his fellows’ squabbling.

“Surely, this would go faster on horseback,” the girl with the vermillion half-cape is saying. “Why bother with a carriage? It’s only going to slow us down.”

The boy in Leicester gold smiles in a way that reminds Byleth of Luca, and not only because of their obvious, shared Almyran ancestry. His expression is light, but his words border on the suggestively disdainful. “Not every campaign can be fast and aggressive, Princess. We want the bandits to come to us. Not run halfway across the Alliance in fear.”

At that, the other boy shakes his head. He offers the pair a wan smile, and his voice is almost too soft for Byleth to hear. “Much as I agree the carriage is the better plan for luring them in, I sincerely doubt they will run from so small a force. It seems far more likely they should try and take us hostage. We should be careful.”

“Underestimate yourself if you must, Dimitri, but I am more than equipped to face some common thugs,” the girl snaps. “However, if you both insist, then I suppose our course is set.”

With that, she loads herself into the carriage.

The Leicester boy laughs as he follows hers inside. His next words are too muffled for Byleth to make out, but whatever they are, they make this ‘Dimitri’ laugh in a quiet, strained sort of fashion. He begins to follow the other two into the carriage, but pauses at the last moment. His gaze roams across the bailey until, just for a moment, she swears he’s looking directly at her. 

Her pulse does something strange and skittery that makes her throat clog and her knees go weak. 

Those eyes. Even at this distance, there’s something about his eyes… Something wretchedly familiar, and magnetic down to her core.

“Um, excuse me, Ms. Demon?” 

Flinching, Byleth shakes herself loose of these strange, unwelcome new feelings. She forces her illusory mask back into place, and faces the guards behind her. They exchange nervous looks, before their elected speaker continues, “Ah. Sorry, but you’re really not supposed to be loitering in here. We could get into trouble. If you’d please make your way to the gates?”

Unable to miss how much their attitudes have shifted now that she’s “The Ashen Demon” in their eyes, Byleth simply nods. She glances one last time back across the bailey to where the carriage door is slamming shut. 

Just then, a glint of light on the far side, back near the stables, catches her eye. Three knights in full armor are approaching, mounted on fine steeds and bearing the sigil of the Church upon their breasts. 

It’s definitely time to leave. 

Byleth tweaks the hood of her cloak over her head and walks as fast as she dares back toward the main gate, and the town beyond. She reaches the portcullis before she hears the clack of hooves and wheels upon the cobblestone behind her. Moving off to one side, Byleth watches the small procession of knights and carriage pass her by. 

As they draw close, she ducks her head to keep her face as far in the shadows as possible. Still, from the corner of her eye, she thinks she feels the Faerghus boy watching her from the carriage window, daffodil-blonde hair fluttering with the bounce of the carriage, and eyes haunted as a crime scene.

### #

Byleth knows she ought to return to their camp immediately. She’s carrying a lot of coin--too much to be roaming around town on her own, no matter her skill--and her father will worry. 

Instead, she follows the carriage. It’s that same curious impulse guiding her; the one that wants these people to turn into monsters before her eyes. To show her some sign that they’re half as dangerous as Jeralt clearly believes. To make her understand why Jeralt is so insistent upon it.

And maybe it’s also those eyes. Just a little bit.

The streets Byleth traversed to get to the castle are too crowded for the carriage to pass through; it’s movement is restricted to the larger boulevard that runs parallel to the castle walls, and crests down the side of the hill like a great, grey snake basking in the sun. Even here, the carriage can’t pick up traveling speed thanks to the crowds of pedestrians flowing in and out of the market streets, as well as other carriages and smaller rickshaws rolling to and from the large, walled estates branching off the castle path. Regardless, it is making good time, and Byleth eventually falls behind. She could run after it, but drawing that sort of attention has never been her style. Finally, she has to let the carriage go; monsterless and ordinary. 

When it passes out of sight near the rising gateway of the Myrddin Bridge, Byleth slows to a stop, moving to stand against an estate wall to keep from being shoved and pushed in the milling traffic. Her gaze remains locked upon the place where it disappeared, her pulse pounding in her throat she tries to understand the buzzing sensation roaring through her veins. 

Now that she’s stopped, it’s difficult to remember why she’s done this, or where she thought she was going. At least it was ultimately in the right direction. The Strikers must have begun to pitch their tents by now, she feels, given the angle of the sun. Night will be encroaching soon, and she ought to help. 

She moves back into traffic precisely as the bells in the cathedral tower strike the first note of the hour; high and clear and bright. Her attention snaps to the building across the road. 

Byleth hadn’t realized the boulevard connected to the front side of the cathedral, but here it is; rising several stories high and composed of the same slate-grey stone as the walls. Its edges are thick and fortified, with swooping, delicate rooflines and brazenly white limestone lining every arched window and doorway. 

A sharp shout from a carriage driver, and the rattling of harnesses and hooves alerts Byleth to jump back just in time to avoid being hit. The driver spits, and curses her beneath his breath as he passes. 

Shaking her head like a wet dog, Byleth tries to throw her momentary lapse in judgement. Her feet move to follow the carriage, but her attention remains locked to the cathedral. 

It’s not the first one she’s been this close to. It’s only that… well, Jeralt is usually beside her. Anytime there’s a strong Church presence in a town they’re passing through, he’s always been sure to keep her close to his side. 

Though she is curious, it isn’t like Byleth precisely cares. It’s just frustrating. He wouldn’t give her a solid reason why he does this, but he was willing--albeit, reluctantly--to tell Luca. And then he sent her away. He’d _sent her away_ , rather than trusting her with the truth.

The spark of anger that had fizzled that morning reignites, dim and smouldering, inside her. She takes another glance in each direction, as much searching for signs of her fellow mercenaries as oncoming traffic, before she plunges across the street. 

After dancing and weaving her way through the crowd, Byleth halts before the great, guarding doors of the cathedral and looks up at the carvings in the limestone. She hadn’t been able to see them before; not with the sun glinting off the white. But here, at this angle, she can make out the reliefs of dragons curling around the doorframe. 

Her fingers raise to the back of her head, sinking beneath her hair to trace the thin scar running along the base of her skull. It itches. Something about this place makes it itch something awful. 

Another glance around. No one. More hesitantly, Byleth mounts the steps and pushes her way inside.

### #

It’s beautiful.

Of course it is. Everyone always says they are, these cathedrals. After all, they’re built by nobles, and the nobles can’t miss any opportunity to let everyone know how important and rich they are, so they _have_ to be beautiful.

Byleth slowly paces her way inside this monument to the Goddess, eyes scanning every line of column; every flying arch; every radiant, coloured window casting a dizzying array of lights upon the architecture. It’s so bizarrely familiar. Why is it so familiar?

The long, wooden pews within the cathedral are spaced into four sections with a perfectly symmetrical cross of empty space separating them so that visitors can walk through. At the far end sits a three-stepped dais spanning the back wall. A solid granite altar rests there, festooned with lit candles and bowls of offerings that cover every surface and half the floor at it’s base. 

Above this, a gargantuan circular window dominates the upper sections of the wall. Of all the cathedral’s stained windows, this one is the most impressive and the most complicated. There must be thousands of pieces of glass in it’s working, each a slightly different shade than the ones around it. They swirl together to form the likeness of a silver dragon backed against a bold blue sky, circled around a tower of white. That same symbol from the carriage is writ large and crimson in the center, but right beneath it is a different shape. A curious shape. One that doesn’t seem to fit quite right, though she can’t decide why.

Byleth pauses at the center of the cross, frowning as she stares at this shape in an effort to make sense of what she’s seeing. 

It looks almost like a woman.

Their Goddess, maybe? Or perhaps their saint. What was her name, again?

The whisper, when it comes, is childish and light, and pressed directly against her ear. “Seiros.”

Byleth startles, whirling around and pressing her hand to the hilt of her sword. 

There’s no one there. No one, save a few elderly patrons and nuns scattered through the pews behind her. Many raise their eyes from their prayers to look at her with curiosity, annoyance, or barely disguised disgust. One ancient crone presses a finger to her wizened lips and shushes Byleth, before closing her eyes and resuming her mumbled litany. 

Ignoring them, Byleth steals a look back toward the picture window. A cold shiver, like a claw running down her back, overtakes her. 

The woman’s figure is gone, like it had never been there in the first place. Unsure what to make of it, and no longer feeling quite so curious or welcome in this place, Byleth turns and flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who may be wondering what's going on, well, no one on tumblr tried to stop me so blame them. 
> 
> I kid, I kid. Mostly. 
> 
> Here's the deal: I've been rather frustrated with myself and TLR of late, largely due to my... well, perfectionist tendencies, I suppose. See, I began TLR on a sort of a whim. If you've read all my author notes (and bless you, if you have) then you probably know that when I started series I hadn't even finished the game. I think I was--MAYBE--at the halfway mark, and wrote Growing Pains in response to my frustration with the game's rather limited responses to very complicated questions. I wrote several other entries before finishing the series, and by that point my understanding of many characters and the things I wanted out of the game had shifted dramatically. 
> 
> When I began writing Obsidian Night I had the idea to go back and re-write everything from the beginning, given all the shifts that I had taken. There are a lot of things that I wished I'd set up better; moments from far earlier in the game which I wish I'd gone back and rewritten to better fit with the story _I_ want to tell. Because sometimes I still feel like I take hard left turns in Obsidian Night that are perfectly logical with the backstory I have in my head, but are perhaps a little blind-siding for people who don't put up with me 24/7. 
> 
> Thus enters... Ruby Dawn. I'm doing what I thought I should do from the beginning. I'm rewriting it. All of it. I may possibly be certifiable, but I'm going to try. 
> 
> What does this mean for Obsidian Night? Don't worry! That is still going to be updated, as it has been. I am treating it, and the rest of what's already posted, as a Draft One. This is more like draft two, meaning that some things may be changed from how they were presented in those original stories, and I'm adding in a lot of things that I cut or only alluded to in the first draft... largely because I was too scared to go there (especially without a lot of foreshadowing.) 
> 
> If you've been reading ON and don't care to come back to the beginning with me, well, I get it. It's a Lot. But I hope you'll give this a chance, and that this meets with half as great of a reception as ON has to this point. You guys have been amazingly kind about most of the nonsense I get up to around here, and I really, truly appreciate all your kind words and support these past several months. This series would have fizzled out a long damn time ago without each and every one of you. 
> 
> So, with all that said, let's make like Sothis and rewind this shit.


	2. The Past Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth's dreams grow darker as unknown entity encroaches upon her life. Meanwhile, she and her father try to have a very necessary discussion. One, it seems, they may have had before.

**Day 15 Great Tree Moon, Year 1180**

To Byleth’s surprise, Jeralt doesn’t question where she’d been or what had taken her so long. He hadn’t even been in camp when she returned. Neither had Luca. The two didn’t arrive until well past sundown, but they seemed in better spirits than they had when she’d last seen them, and Byleth decided it was better to leave these things unquestioned.

When she gives over the Company’s pay, Jeralt pets her hair like he’s done all her remembered life. “You did good. They give you any trouble?”

She thinks of the marshal’s attempt to stiff them, and his quickly altered attitude once her nickname came into play. She shakes her head. “No, Daddy.”

“Good. Maybe,” he pauses, mid-sentence, with his fingers buried in her dark hair, looking down at her more kindly and sadly than he had been that morning, “Maybe you should start taking over more, again. I think it would be good for us both.”

Byleth isn’t so sure of that. She twists her mouth uncomfortably from side to side and rubs her nose, looking away. 

“You’ll be fine, Bye,” Jeralt says, and kisses the top of her head. He lets her go, and heads toward the campfire, shouting for the mercs to gather up. She settles next to one of their supply wagons, back against the wooden wheel spokes and knees drawn up beneath her chest. 

Others settle nearby; most of them are remaining old guard, the ones who’d known her since she was but a ghost of a girl with all the knowledge of the world a child ought to possess and absolutely no recollection of herself. Mange, the Company’s self-appointed cook, passes over a gourd bowl filled with stewed beans, rice and sausage, topped with a fist-sized hunk of warm, dark bread. She balances it on her knees as she diligently plucks the bread apart and uses it to scoop up the bowl’s contents. 

“Tomorrow morning we’ll be headed back to Faerghus. You all know the plan has been to get to the Rhodos Coast before the summer pirate raids start up again— _if_ they start up again, and let’s remember that it isn’t a sure thing—” This generates a laugh. Everyone knows the raids have been going on like clockwork for decades, now. “—Until then, House Charon has a bandit problem for us to contend with.” 

Jeralt pauses for a brief round of hearty cheers. Work is work, and with how slim the pickings have been, no one is complaining. 

“We’re going up the monastery road,” Jeralt continues, causing no small amount of raised eyebrows and skeptical glances from the old timers. He ignores them. “And we’re leaving before dawn. If you want to trek back over to Myrddin for some fun, no one’s going to stop you. But I’m telling you all this now as a warning: if you aren’t here and ready to march as soon as there’s light in the sky, we _will_ leave you behind. Especially you new recruits. No one here’s your parent, and we aren’t attached enough to your asses to go pulling them butt-naked from some brothel. _We_ aren’t the ones you pay to see that.”

Another small round of laughs, and agreement. 

“That said, I know things are pretty tight right now. See me within the next hour if you want a pay advance. Just remember it is an _advance_ , and I do keep a ledger. Don’t come crying to me when next month’s pay is short.”

Only a few of the new recruits take him up on the offer, Byleth notices as the crowd breaks apart. Some of the older members do join the newer ones in the trek back across the bridge and into the city, though. She wonders how many of them will be left behind in the morning, either by accident or on purpose. It doesn’t really matter, she supposes. There’s always more.

Of course, that means there will always be new people for her to contend with. That’s a souring thought.

As she finishes her dinner, Luca joins her. 

“You changed his mind,” she says, by way of question as he folds his arms along his upraised knees.

“As close to changing as his ever gets,” Luca replies with a shrug of one shoulder. He leans into Byleth, throwing his arm around her and pulling her close as his voice lowers. “He has fair reasoning, Bye, even if he’s being a mule about it.”

“Which is?”

Luca sighs, and squeezes his arm around her. Byleth’s dinner sinks like a rock in her stomach. 

She eyes the remaining few bites in her bowl with distaste, before setting them aside. One of the Company’s thick, muscular warhounds wanders over to stuff it's muzzle into the bowl. She doesn’t bother correcting it, though she knows she should. Neither does Luca. 

“You aren’t going to tell me.”

“Not… _yet_ , no.”

“Luuucaaaa.”

“Don’t you whine at me,” Luca orders gently. He ruffles her hair with his free hand, and drags her back down beside him when she tries to get away. “Hey! Hey. Look at me?”

Byleth’s cheeks puff out as she begrudgingly meets his eyes. Luca chuckles and pokes her cheek until the air comes rushing out. 

“ _Wait_. Be patient a little bit longer. It’s something he… he really ought to tell you himself.” Luca’s warm, brown eyes flick toward Jeralt still holding court across the camp clearing. It looks like there’s a small dispute he’s trying to settle. “I’ll work on him. You’ll see.”

“Mm,” is all Byleth can say to that. She tips her head to the side, nestling against him, and closes her eyes as she feels his chin rest atop her hair. 

And then there’s nothing. Nothing at all. 

Nothing, except her and the disquieting dark.

### #

The throne room is gone, but the scene in its place is close enough in spirit that a trail of gooseflesh trembles up her arms. Watery green light dances across polished, cultured columns that rise toward a vaulted, crumbling ceiling. To her either side, the walls of this space are punctuated with thin, glassed windows. They’re frosted with light at the edges of their multitudinous panes, but that does nothing to obscure the darkness waiting beyond. 

It hungers, this darkness. She doesn’t know what for, or how she understands it, or why it terrifies her. It simply does.

These are thoughts she’s had before, hasn’t she?

Byleth lets out a trembling breath that condenses in the air before her. 

She is dreaming. She knows this, and it does nothing to lessen her fear. 

Trying desperately to lock that emotion down, Byleth turns a slow circle to examine her surroundings in full. Blackened, charred benches are splayed around her in four evenly spaced squares, with her at their dead center. Skeletons sit on these benches, their hands clasped in prayer and pristine, finely made clothing draped over their bones. One has its finger pressed over its yellowed, desiccated teeth.

At the far end, behind the skeletal inhabitants of this realm, the room fades into yawning blackness. 

She turns, and where before there had been only an empty dais there now exists a familiar jade throne, and a girl with long, green hair. 

Byleth’s gorge rises, threatening to choke her. The girl’s eyes are both open to the barest of glittering slits. 

“Who are _you_?” 

The question startles the air between them. Byleth isn’t certain which of them spoke; the voice sounded neither like herself, nor like the girl’s voice, though she’s hard pressed to recall exactly how the girl sounded. Like a child, she thinks. Like a whisper. 

A whisper…

Shaking. Everything is shaking. The skeletons fly from their benches, their bones scattering in every direction, as the green light dims, and is quickly replaced by flickering torchlight.

She scrabbles for her sword, hampered by a heavy cloth draped over her body. The person shaking her shoulder jerks back before Byleth can find the hilt.

“Whoa there, girl,” growls the smoke-scarred voice of the Striker’s Quartermaster, Grizzle. Her copper-and-silver braid sways heavily with her movement as she backs out of striking range. “Easy, now. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What—” Byleth stumbles, still a little confused and disoriented. That had been one hell of a nightmare. “What’s going on?”

“S’Gettin’ on near dawn, and your Da wants you.”

“R-right. Thank you.” 

The woman grunts her reply, before hobbling off across the camp. Byleth remains where she is, dimly aware that she’s still propped against the wagon wheel. Someone threw a thick, woolen blanket over her, but her mostly exposed backside is freezing. 

Shivering, she stretches her legs out one after another, and works her fingers until the joints no longer ache, before climbing to her feet. 

All the while, their camp has been breaking down around her. Silent mercs, most of them a little bleary eyed and stiff, are disassembling tents and throwing supplies into wagons. The horses have already been hitched, and close-by Mange is presiding over a pair of large, battered kettles boiling a steady supply of strong, bitter tea. A basket filled with wrapped barm cakes and black pudding sits beside him. 

Though she wouldn’t mind a bit of breakfast, Grizzle’s words come back to her as she pulls her blanket tight around her shoulders. Her gaze scans the crowd again. She doesn’t find her father, but she does see Mange crook one gnarled finger in her direction.

She skips the line, approaching as beckoned. When she gets in range, the stump-footed old man plucks one of the kettles up before the next merc can snatch it. He pours her a cup, handing it to her, and passes the kettle back to the frowning, squinty-eyed recruit. Mange doesn’t seem to care or notice that his favouritism has earned her a new enemy, saying, “Take a roll. Your dad’s up front with Luca. I doubt they’ll be sending you back my way. Even if you are too damned skinny for the work you get up to.”

Byleth flashes him a slim smile and does as told. The damage is already done, after all. She may as well enjoy her privilege. She pauses long enough to peck the old man’s cheek, before wandering toward the soon-to-be front of their procession. Still, she doesn’t miss the recruit muttering, “You let it kiss you?”

“Watch your tongue, lad, or _you_ can damn well go without breakfast,” Mange snaps in return. The rest of their bickering fades out behind her, drowned by the familiar noise of the cavalry horses and warhounds being brought to place. A few of the dogs rush to circle around her, sniffing her from every angle before their master whistles them back to attention. 

Byleth unwraps her breakfast with one hand as she walks, using her mouth to help peel back the cheesecloth in lieu of a free hand. She’s just managed her first bite when she spots her father and Luca with a map splayed over the saddle of Jeralt’s horse. 

“It could shave a few days off travel,” Jeralt is saying, “And if the Charon’s information was correct, we might spot our problem on the way.”

“I wouldn’t disagree except for the wagons.”

“We’ve forded worse.”

“Aye, but—well. I suppose any delay would just put us on time as if we took the main road.”

Byleth swallows her mouthful and says, “I thought we were taking the Monastery road?”

Without looking up, Jeralt responds, “We could still. You and I are going to ride ahead and scout a side road that could take a few days off the trip. It’s an old livestock trail, and probably passable.”

“But?”

“But I want to be sure,” he replies as he finally folds the map up and hands it to Luca. The thinner man stuffs the paper into his doublet. “Good, you have breakfast. Let’s go.”

Luca and Byleth exchange a look they both read as “a nervous Jer is a testy Jer,” then Luca plants a quick kiss on Jeralt’s lips and one on Byleth’s forehead. 

“I want you both back in one piece,” he informs them as he strides backward along the line. He waits until he sees them both nod agreement before turning, and shouting for Grizzle. 

Jeralt rubs his fingers across his lips thoughtfully. The gesture doesn’t hide the slight smile written there, which is exchanged for a slight pinkening of his cheeks when he notices Byleth watching him. “Let me hold that while you get mounted up. We have a lot of distance to cover.”

Byleth dutifully hands over her breakfast until she’s astride her nameless black gelding. Moments later, they’re gone. 

### #

The hustle and bustle of the Company falls away behind them as the cobblestone road gives way to heavily packed earth. Byleth looks about them with interest as the canyon of Myrddin gives way to grassy, rolling hills suffuse with billowing fog and the lingering sounds of nighttime insects. A line of dark treetops looms larger and closer with every hill they crest, until Byleth can see the gaping, dark maw beneath their boughs that the road winds inexorably toward. 

Though dawn is close at hand, and growing closer by the second, the moon still hangs fat and round-bellied to the west. It will be full in a few days’ time, and it’s silvered light casts everything blue-grey before it. 

“I suppose you’re wondering why no one else is joining us,” Jeralt says eventually, his voice startling several frogs into temporary silence.

“Not really.”

“No?”

“Neither of us need torches. We’re a good choice for scouting. Especially if you expect highwaymen.” 

The silence returns a moment, and Byleth wonders if she’s made a mistake mentioning that aloud. There isn’t anyone around that she’s aware of, but still. Ever since her accident, and the subsequent loss of her early childhood, there have been moments like this where she’s made the mistake of pointing out, in one manner or another, something on Jeralt’s long list of things he’d rather be left unsaid. 

His list included items such as his issues with the Church, and how little she resembles him, and how preternaturally strong she and Jeralt both are… among other tidbits. Like how her wounds occasionally heal mid-battle, even when she hasn’t used any healing spells that she was aware of. At times it happens so fast she could swear it’s as though she were drawing the blood of her enemies into herself in order to keep fighting.

If Jeralt is capable of the same thing, she hasn’t seen any evidence of it. What she has noticed, however, is that he never seems to stumble about in the dark of night unless he’s been drinking. Like her, he’s capable of infiltrating enemy camps and crossed entire battlefields with only a sprinkling of starlight to guide him. It took her a longer time to realize that most people _can’t_ do these things. That the world is much darker to them. 

That the stars love them a little less. 

Hm. That’s a strange turn of phrase. One she’s never thought before, but, now that she has, it feels somehow right. As _‘right’_ as the moonlight caressing her skin like a long lost lover. 

She ruminates on this as the silence stretches. Just as Byleth is readying an apology, Jeralt sighs and says, “No. At least, that isn’t all of it. Though it is part of why I send you out by yourself so often.”

Byleth nods, understanding. 

“I don’t expect highwaymen, but there is a chance. The herding track runs slightly closer to where the local leigemen think this band is hiding out than the monastery road does. If they aren’t out hunting, or if there’s more than just one hunting party, we’ll probably find signs of them. Possibly even the encampment itself.”

“An abandoned keep, perhaps?” Those were common in Faerghus territory, she recalls. The country is, and has been, poor for some time; largely due to the Sreng pirate incursions in the north, and the dearth of good farming lands to the south. Their countryside—and, to a somewhat lesser degree, the Alliances’ as well—is dotted with derelict Imperial structures which call to squatters like beacons on a rocky shore. 

“That’s what I can’t figure out. There isn’t anything marked on the map, and the letter I was given didn’t mention any known ruins out this way. It could just be a winter camp; they could’ve been shoved out of better territory when the snows came. All I know is, if I were them, I wouldn’t stay around here as long as they have without damned good reason.” Jeralt scoffs. “Hel, if I were them, I wouldn’t have come in twenty miles of here in the first place. But they aren’t usually the most well educated lot.”

“Not everyone is scared of the Church.”

“They should be. Especially bandits.”

“Why?”

Silence, again. Byleth swallows hard against her rising temper as they enter the significantly darker forest line. It’s like a light being blown out, and the horses shy back for a moment at the sudden change. They two riders reign in, allowing the animals to pause briefly as all their eyes adjust. 

When they do, they find the road before them much the same as it is behind. The fog is thinner, but still present; swirling about the horses’ hooves like a living blanket above the forest floor. What little they can see of the road remains hard packed dirt, rutted in a few places and scattered with the desiccated remains of last autumn’s leaves. A late owl hoots in the distance, and for the briefest moment Byleth thinks she detects the faintest whiff of smoke on the wind. Odd. 

“The track should be just up ahead,” says Jeralt, nudging his calmed horse back into a trot. Well trained as it is, Byleth’s mount follows immediately. Inwardly, she seethes. He’s avoiding questions. Again.

“Dad—”

“The Church does a good job of patrolling the lands near their monastery,” he says, surprising her back into silence. “One of their most fervent tenants is that they spare no mercy for thieves, however petty. A local Lord or Lady might choose to indenture bandits who wave a white flag. The Church won’t. They draw a harsh line against anyone who reaches for more than their due, no matter the circumstances.”

“But,” Byleth begins, voice hesitating and hushed to keep from carrying, “What if you’re starving? What if you didn’t have much choice?”

Jeralt shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Before she can process that, he sighs and casts her a quick, strange glance she only gets the barest glimpse of before he’s once again facing the road ahead of her. “It doesn’t matter to the _knights_ , anyway. Most of them. It wasn’t always that way, but… Hn. Anyway, some of the officials are willing to make exceptions, but you can probably guess how often that comes up in the field.” 

She could, at that. Especially if said ‘officials’ weren’t the field-work type.

In the smattering of silence that follows this statement the livestock trail appears as a break in the wall of trees to their right. Like the road they’ve been traveling, the trees to either side of the path touch boughs overhead, though the canopy they form is far less consistent. Unlike the road, there is no glimpse of packed earth beneath the fog that pools here; there is only long-stemmed grass, the first shoots of saplings near the tree line, the splitting buds of wildflowers beneath the canopy’s holes and everywhere else the sort of stick-like, hardy undergrowth that thrives in perpetual twilight.

As Jeralt dismounts to lead his horse into the grass, Byleth hesitates, whipping her head to one side and then the other.

“What is it?”

She scans the road ahead of them, a little unsure of herself. The smell of smoke is stronger, here, but that’s hardly saying much. The scent lingers like the embers of a campfire the morning after it’s been banked. And yet-- _no_ . Not like a campfire. There’s something… _clean_ about this smell. Like fire without any need for such dirty business as kindling or flint. A smell like magic. 

“I don’t know,” she says to Jeralt, as her eyes scan the grayscale forest. Nothing seems burnt or out of place, that she can see. Nor does any spark of unnatural flame lighten the darkness. “But we should be on guard, I think.”

He nods, trusting her to say more when she has a better answer, and takes his horse by the reins. Byleth dismounts, and follows him onto the trail. For a while, they remain silent; listening for signs of other people in the forest surrounding them. But nothing happens, and the smell of fire quickly fades. 

The ground here is uneven beneath her feet; pocked by hooves and thick with fallen branches. Though they probably could have ridden it, overall the trail is rough enough that she would have been concerned about her horse stumbling and breaking a leg in this fog. She likes this horse. She isn’t ready to eat it. 

Gradually, the light turns to slants of silver-blue lancing through the canopy. Around them, birds begin to sing; unperturbed by their passing. They must be used to heavy traffic, Byleth thinks. Traffic from the road, from herds, or bandits, though? That is the question.

Another question is why the Church’s blind orders regarding thieves bothers Jeralt. She can see his point, certainly. However… 

When she’s judged that they’ve passed the point where discretion is needed, Byleth continues their conversation, “ _We_ don’t offer mercy.”

“We don’t make a point of philosophizing our existence, either.” Then he grumbles, “Don’t give me that look.”

Byleth turns her gaze back onto the path head, glad that he’d seen the irony. A beat later, she says, “I doubt most folk would be too sore about all that. Bandits aren’t looked on kindly, no matter their reasoning.”

Jeralt shrugs. “Folk tend to change their minds often when it comes to this sort of thing. Usually tied to what side of the law their loved ones are currently on.”

“That still doesn’t explain why _everyone_ should fear them.” Byleth glances up through a broken section of canopy as they pass through it’s light. The stars are fading above them; the sky a gentle mixture of blue and grey. “Or why you brought me out here.”

“No. It doesn’t,” he agrees. To her mounting frustration, the quiet stretches once again as they pace along; vigilant for any sign of people or predator about. It continues until the babbling of a nearby creek imposes itself above the birdsong.

“Bye, I’m going to say a word, and I want you to tell me what it means to you. Okay?”

She cuts her father another strange look, and finds him watching her with a pained, tired expression that silences any protest she might have. Instead, she nods her assent. 

His lips move. He’s said… something. 

Something… Some _awful_ something. 

Some _thing_ that causes the world to shrink and swell at the same time. 

A sharp, high-pitched tone blasts into her skull, threatening to split her open from the inside out. She gasps in pain, dropping her horse’s reins to clap her hands protectively over her ears. 

They do nothing. The noise doesn’t stop. If anything, it grows louder. It lances in through the scar on the back of her head, and builds, builds, _builds_. 

Distantly, she’s aware that they’ve stopped moving. Jeralt is several feet ahead of her, staring with a wary, fearful expression; like how he might greet a starved dog whose temperament can’t be ascertained. 

Then Jeralt’s hands are gripping her shoulders. When did he move? She doesn’t know. 

Neither does she know why his face is suddenly smudged with soot, or why he smells of death and burning. Or why he’s dressed in farmer’s clothing, rather than his leathers… 

She remembers him this way; once. The memory is both distant and vivid; the colours patchy and cracked like a painting abandoned to time’s mercy. It was the night the first her—the Byleth that she was back when he’d raised her from infancy—had ”died.” The night a single blow to the back of her head took all that away, and instead left a _new_ Byleth in her place; one with strange ways and a complete lack of context for the knowledge that exists in her brain.

But why—? Why is she thinking of that now?

Jeralt shakes her once, sharply. He does it again.

The world snaps back into focus; quiet and calm, and filled with early birdsong. Byleth stares at her father as he is now, and at the trail around them. She looks at their horses, who’ve wandered several feet away and munching on thistles. 

Her voice is soft and puzzled as she asks, “Where are we?” 

Jeralt murmurs something that sounds perplexingly like “ _Dammit_. Not again,” before easing his grip on her shoulders. “We’re scouting for a possible side trail—”

“Into Charon territory. That’s right,” Byleth interrupts, voice breathless and hollow as the rest of the day comes flooding back into her skull. They’d taken on the Myrddin job, reported in, and were on their way to Charon for a similar sort of task. “We were talking about… what were we talking about? It was… It was… ”

Jeralt’s hands slide down her shoulders to grip her arms. He pulls her into a firm hug without warning, and Byleth stiffens briefly before melting into the unexpected embrace. 

“It was nothing,” says Jeralt. “Nothing that matters.”

“But—”

“It isn’t anything to worry over,” he repeats with such fervency that she lets it go. After another several moments, in which she could swear she hears his breath quaver with pent up emotion, he kisses her hair, and pulls away.

On his way to their horses, Jeralt calls, “Come on. There should be a creek up ahead. We need to be sure it’s still passable.”

### #

It’s passable. 

Still a little dazed and confused, Byleth insists on staying on the far side of the creek while Jeralt rides back to meet Luca and the others. She promises she’ll keep an eye out for the highwaymen, and settles down against a tree to absently braid wildflower chains by the growing light of dawn. 

She’s missing time again, and she knows it. The frustration is secondary to the relief: it was only a few minutes. It had to have been only a few minutes, because the sun still isn’t fully up and she and Jeralt were walking the same herd trail she thinks they were discussing earlier that morning. Other times she hadn’t been so lucky. Times when she’d skipped hours, or even several days. The episodes had been fewer in number and farther between these past couple years. Enough, that she’d begun to think they might be over entirely. No such luck. 

What had they been talking about? Try as she might, she just can’t remember.

As the light grows brighter along the creek, where the light shines down through a vastly thinned canopy, she lets her horse graze aimlessly along the shore and simply… exists. It’s nice to get to do this once in a while. Though she wishes she hadn’t needed to have an episode to get out from beneath her father’s foot. 

She bisects another stem with her fingernail and loops a flower through as her lips twist into a vague frown as she gives up probing the fresh hole in her memory. There’s nothing for it. This is just her life. Her, and her broken brain. 

Byleth sighs. She finishes the final loop tying the chain together and pushes herself to her feet. Her horse is approaching the creek for a drink, and Byleth follows. When she reaches the animal, she plops the crown of freshly blooming flowers around his ears. “There. May you make a better ruler of these lands than whatever blowhard noble claims them now.”

The horse nickers and shakes its head. The crown flutters down into the water.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t want the responsibility, either.”

Byleth scoops the crown up and, as she does, notices a detail she hadn’t when she and Jeralt forded the creek earlier. 

This stretch of water is about two horse-length’s wide, and up to the gelding’s elbow at its deepest. Fordable; particularly with all the largest boulders long since removed from the area connecting the forest trail. Along that line, the creek bed is very deliberately paved in small, white stones that keep it from devolving into a mudpit. 

Whatever rancher had cut this trail was smarter than most. But they weren’t perfect. 

The patch of gravel next to her horse has been worn away over time, revealing the natural earth below. Just at the water’s edge, close enough to a boulder that they’d ignored it when they first came through, is a recently worn wheel mark spreading mud up the bank. 

Had a farmer taken their wagon down this way?

They could have. Any herdsmen would need supplies while trekking to market, and though the ride would be a bumpy form of hel in and of itself, the path is far more than wide enough to support the average workman’s cart. More than that, it would be a decent enough shortcut between the Charon landholdings and the Myrddin markets if a person were desperate enough to brave unguarded woodland.

Something about it is still off, however. What is she missing?

A child says, “The ground is damp.”

Byleth whirls. Her hand grips the hilt of her blade as she readies to battle—but no one is here. Just like in the church yesterday evening, she is alone. Well… not _entirely_ alone.

“Please _don’t_ tell me you learned to talk,” she says to her horse. The gelding flicks an ear at her and returns to its thistles. 

Breath still lurching unevenly, Byleth keeps her swordhand at the ready while she studies the tracks. 

Whether fortunately or not, Byleth finds that the disembodied voice is correct: the tracks are still damp. Whatever vehicle made this mark, it came through recently enough that the earth hasn’t had time to fully absorb the moisture. Which means it came through either _very_ early that morning, or late last night. 

In fact, now that she’s looking for it, and with the fog cleared off with the rising dawn, the line of broken foliage leading deeper into the forest is easily spotted from the creek. It isn’t clear by any means, and the trail fades off quickly, but it does exist. More importantly, it exists _alone_. There’s no signs of herd animals coming through. Cattle would have trampled all the plants, and sheep or goats would have left tangles of wool and fur in the prickliest patches. 

So what is a lone cart doing all the way out here?

Perhaps her father’s fears of banditry are right. 

She takes her horse by the reins and tethers it to one side of the creek. Drawing a dagger, she carves a few quick slash marks into the tree beside it; a simple pictogram indicating her decision to scout further ahead. Then Byleth slips up the trail as quietly as she can, sticking near the tree line and looking for signs of the cart’s passage.

A short while ahead she finds more than a sign. She finds the vehicle. 

It isn’t a cart. It’s a carriage. 

One of the same carriages, in fact, as the pair she’d seen the day before. 

The front left wheel is broken, it’s remaining top half jutting from a blossom of splinters upon the ground and causing the carriage to list haphazardly towards one corner. The door on that side stands open, with a silver curtain hanging further out and fluttering in a slight breeze. Beneath the bottom of the door, dangle a set of lifeless, pale fingers.

There’s a noise like heavy, belaboured breath coming from that direction. It’s too loud to be human, Byleth thinks, and is confused until one of the horses lifts its head. The sight sends a quiet lurch into her stomach as she realizes what she’d mistaken for a stand of strange, oddly placed bushes is, in fact, the remains of a spike trap. It must have been covered with uprooted foliage at some point; no doubt looking like overgrown vegetation along a rarely used trail. Until the cart plowed straight through it. 

Only one of the horses is alive. It won’t be for much longer. Even if it manages—miraculously—to survive the bloodloss, at least two of its legs are broken. 

Byleth still takes the time to scan the surrounding area for assailants or other traps before she approaches and quickly helps the horse out of its misery.

Inside the carriage, she finds what she’d begun to expect. The body belongs to one of the group from yesterday; the mercenary-looking older man who’d accompanied the three in uniform. He has a rough, rusted blade stuck in his throat like a calling card, and a look of abject confusion written across his stiffening face. 

That seems… strange. The man’s leathers are torn as though he’d been fighting, but his body is strewn across the carriage with just one arm visible from the outside—like he’d been getting out when he was struck. 

A distinct scream from the forest jerks Byleth from her ruminations. She turns her back to the carriage and scans the trees to the north. Silence reigns momentarily; a silence far too deep for comfort. The birds have stopped singing. The crickets no longer hum. 

Then the sound comes again, and she turns ever so slightly east towards it. 

Could the others still be alive?

It seems possible. There’s no sign of the other carriage, or any of the knights she’d seen in their company the day before. If those screams are theirs, however, it’s equally possible they won’t be alive much longer.

Still, she hesitates. Byleth spares a glance behind her on the trail. The Strikers are nowhere in sight. There’s no telling how far behind they are, or how long it will take them to catch up. 

All she knows is, if there’s someone out there who still needs help she may be the only one for miles that can give it.

“Go,” whispers the disembodied voice. Byleth’s feet were already in motion.


	3. Three Nobles and a Goddess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth charges into the woods to save a group of people she's never met at the behest of a disembodied voice. Can she get to them in time, or will she regret getting involved at all?

**Day 15 Great Tree Moon, Year 1180**

Byleth picks her way cautiously through the dim light of the forest proper. It’s easier finding her way under the trees than she expected; the clang of metal on metal echoes through the trees, strongest to the north-east. If that weren’t sign enough, the trail of bodies several yards out proves her right. She counts four as she passes through; three in mismatched leathers and chain, and one in the shining plate of the Church’s knights. Shortly past the last of them, she glimpses a clearing just ahead; obvious by the brightening of light between the thinning tree trunks.

She makes the treeline in time to see a pair of fighters come crashing through opposite her; one a figure in black with a tattered, golden-rod half-cape over his shoulder; the other an obvious brigand.

The Leicaster boy has a bow clutched in one hand, but no arrow drawn. He works his arm behind him, reaching for another, but the melee fighter is already too close. He’ll reach the boy first, and his axe is ready. 

“Duck!” Byleth yells, drawing and flinging her dagger in a single swift movement.

Both fighters respond instinctively; the boy tumbles to the side with an acrobat’s grace and rights himself in the same motion, while the bandit hits the dirt with the velocity of a man used to projectiles coming at his face. 

Byleth doesn’t wait to see if the dagger hits anything else. She launches herself across the meadow, drawing her sword as she moves, and vaulting over the degrading remains of a fallen log between herself and her target. 

The bandit picks himself up quickly. He meets her downward swing with a block, clearly expecting to shove her backwards after. His eyes widen, and he stumbles as he’s met with a force he can’t budge. Byleth leans into the stance, letting her blade bite ever further into the axe’s handle shaft. 

An arrow _thunks_ in the bandit’s shoulder. The man screams, lurching sideways. 

Byleth uses the opportunity to duck the opposite direction, her sword singing through the wooden handle as the man’s own force carries him further off balance. She comes up again, slicing quickly across his middle. The blade cuts a deep gash into the leather. Before he can rebound, she comes around on the back swing, aiming a might higher. 

A gush of arterial spray peppers her face. 

The bandit falls, uselessly clutching his split neck as his eyes drain of life. 

“I’m gonna wager you aren’t with _them_ ,” says the boy. Despite his words, he has another arrow drawn and knocked against her; an obvious warning that’s belied by the smile written across his face. He winks one deep green eye at her. “Can’t blame a guy for being careful, right? Who are you?”

“Mercenary. Here to help.” Unperturbed by his weaponry, Byleth scans the forest he came out of. “Where are the others?”

“They sent you after us? Already?” The boy doesn’t sound sure, but from the corner of her eye Byleth sees him lower his weapon. “I’m not sure. We got split up.”

“Then we should move.”

It’s easy to see the spot where the fighters had emerged; the area is all crushed leaves and broken twigs. Byleth traces the path he left like a dog on a scent, and the boy follows far less quietly in her wake. 

That’s annoying, but if they’re going to be making noise anyway, Byleth figures it’s best to get a good picture of the problem.

“I wasn’t sent by anyone. My Company is nearby and I saw the carriage. What happened?”

“Huh. That’s friendly of you.” The boy sighs through his teeth. “What does it look like? We thought we were setting an ambush for some bandits. Turns out, they were setting an ambush for us. Or, I guess, whoever happened to come out this way.”

“You brought a carriage onto a disused livestock trail for an ambush?”

“Well, when you put it like _that_ it sounds pretty stupid,” the boy drawled. She was fairly certain that was sarcasm. Mostly. He shakes his head. “No. Not exactly. They had some kind of trap set up on the main road. Lit a line of fire between us and the rest of our group. Startled the horses, and sent us down this way. Once we were on the trail, our Professor said it would be suicidal for us to stop. He wasn’t wrong, technically. Not that we were given much choice about the stopping bit.”

Byleth frowns. With her memory still warped, it’s hard to be sure but she doesn’t _think_ there was any evidence of a fire on the road. Jeralt wouldn’t have left alone if he’d seen signs of a trap. Still, she supposed it was possible they’d missed the burn marks. It had been foggy; she remembers that much. And something else tingles in the back of her mind. Something about fire… 

“Then you got out and made for the trees,” she guesses, rather than second guessing him.

“Four of us did,” the boy says in a low voice. “Our Professor… stayed behind. To give us a chance.”

“I noticed,” Byleth says before thinking better of it. She’s more preoccupied with the sounds of the forest—not interspersed with fighting nearby, but without any obvious direction for it. The boy doesn’t say anything more. Not until another body appears on the opposite side of a large oak. 

The Leicester boy swears and dodges around her and the tree both to kneel beside the body. He turns the uniformed man over and presses two fingers to his throat. “It’s our driver,” he explains. “The last I saw he was with—”

“RAAhh!” 

“Dimitri!”

The boy takes off toward the step with Byleth barely a footstep behind. They break into another small meadow surrounding a few felled logs and a shallow brook. On its banks, the Faerghus boy stands ringed by several fighters. He’s been keeping them at bay with a lance, but there’s a line of blood flowing down one side of his face, and another blossom of dark crimson along his side. 

“Aim for the ones furthest from him; center mass shots only. Don’t try doing anything fancy,” Byleth orders without thinking about it. 

Without waiting to see if he’ll follow instructions, she extends one hand forward and takes a deep breath. The magic in her veins soars to her call, coalescing up her arm in glowing baubles of light that flicker like fireflies. They spin around her hand, joining into a disk of golden light suspended in the air before her. A pattern flashes upon the disk, there and gone, then the whole thing bursts, as the same golden light twinkles and glitters into the air around Dimitri. 

There are two immediate reactions: the first, Dimitri startles, looking at the newcomers he hadn’t noticed before as the gash upon his forehead knits itself together; the second, the bandits realize they have both new targets, and an opening. 

“Behind you,” Byleth shouts. 

She launches into motion at the same time that Dimitri whirls. He knocks the bandit’s blade slightly askew, sending it skittering across his side, rather than through his back. A fresh slice opens in the boy’s uniform. He hisses in pain, and slams the butt end of his lance into the bandit’s chin. 

As the bandit goes flying much farther than should be possible, Byleth charges into the fray behind Dimitri. She swats aside a blow meant for Dimitri’s once-more exposed back, and kicks the bandit’s legs out from under him. An arrow sinks into his throat a split-second later. 

Byleth presses her back to Dimitri’s. Four bandits left. That nearly evens the odds. 

“Get the archer,” snaps a scar-faced woman to one of the older men. The man sprints for the Leicester boy as his leader makes for Byleth. A zip of arrows follows, ending in a pained scream. She doesn’t look to see what happened. Her attention is fixed on the woman harassing her. It has to be. This one is faster than the others were. 

A series of parries and thrusts; the clang of metal pounding in her ears. Byleth never gets an opportunity to drive in for a strike, but neither does the woman. Nor does either lose ground.

A cold bead of sweat trickles down Byleth’s face; the only outward indication that she’s having to work for this kill. Her offhand reaches for her dagger. A thrown blade might not hit the woman, but it could distract her. Only…

Only her dagger isn’t there. She left it behind earlier. Dammit.

Then from behind her a voice sharply orders, “Down!”

On instinct, she obeys. A lance swings above her in a wide arch, passing so close that her hair billows in the breeze. 

The flat of the lance blade smacks the bandit woman in the face; hard enough that Byleth swears she hears something break. The woman’s eyes cross and blood spurts from her lips as she staggers backward. 

Darting forward, Byleth plunges her sword through a small gap between the woman’s linen chemise and leather cuirass. She twists once, then yanks her blade free and turns to the rest of the battle…

Two more of the men lay dead. The one nearest the Leicester boy is strewn face down with the business ends of several arrows protruding through his back like sinister daisies. The other is slumped three feet away from Dimitri, his blood darkening the grass all around him.

The last bandit dribbles blood, spit and mucus down his busted lips; one side of his face is painfully red and already beginning to swell. The move that had caught the woman must have hit him, as well. 

Dimitri holds his lance at the ready; his stance filled with nervous, fighting energy but his face drawn in worry. “Surrender and you’ll be shown mercy,” he announces. “You don’t have to die for this.”

The man chokes out a brittle laugh. “And do what? Nothing else for me in this world, lad. Might as well die here, now. I’ll die soon as the Church gets their hands on me, anyway.”

“So be it.”

It’s over in a single move. Dimitri lunges forward. The man attempts to parry, but a lone swordsman is no match for the reach of a lancer. He doesn’t even bother knocking the man’s blade aside; he simply drives the wicked point of his weapon into the bandit’s chest, through the armor and ribs in a gesture so simple and clean it’s nearly inhuman. The sheer strength of this boy, hidden in and belied by the lean body of a dancer, is enough to unnerve Byleth just a little. 

Dimitri steps on the corpse to yank his lance free. Behind him, the Leicester boy whistles. “I have to say, I thought you were a gonner for a minute there. Six against one? And how many others are already dead? Heh. This doesn’t seem like the simple highway job the Church promised.”

“It was never going to be ‘simple,’ Claude,” Dimitri argues without heat. He turns to face them, blood already beginning to crust along his face and clothing. The thinnest pink line lingers on his forehead; the only evidence of the wounds Byleth healed. And those eyes… “Where’s El?”

“El?” The boy, now identified as Claude, frowns. “You mean Edelgard? I’m not sure. I thought she was with you.”

“No. We ran into another group shortly after we lost you. I told her and Anton to try and make it back to the carriage while I led them off. Then… well. You see how that worked.”

“I don’t think they made it very far. Anton’s right over there.” Claude points with his bow toward the treeline he and Byleth had come from; toward the body of the driver. 

“Damn. Not Edelgard, though?”

“Not that we saw.”

Dimitri scowls at the woods. Then his attention finally lands on Byleth. “I am not sure where you came from, miss, but—Wait… I know you, don’t I?”

For a moment Byleth simply continues to stare, fixed beneath his gaze like a moth daring ever closer toward a candle flame. She can’t say what it is about him that has her so transfixed. His eyes are beautiful, yes—sky blue and clear as the best summer’s day—but that isn’t what makes her stare. Rather, it’s a feeling; a deep, gut wrenching feeling of horror and grief lurking beneath them. A feeling she knows all too well. 

The disembodied child hisses in her ear, “Get a hold of yourself!”

She startles, and blurts, “We’ve never met.” 

Dimitri’s eyes narrow in thought. Before he can question her, she adds, “Your friend might need our help as well. We should keep moving. Did you get an idea of how many bandits there are?”

Without waiting for an answer, she traces their steps back into the forest and to the driver’s body, leaving it up to the boys whether or not they choose to follow. From the sounds behind her, they both do. 

“Not exactly, no,” says Claude. “There were only a handful by the firetrap. They were howling like banshees, though. It's how they drove our carriage off.”

Dimitri nods. “Ten more attacked when the horses fell. We barely got out of the carriage in time, and were forced into the trees. We managed to get away for a time, but ever since then it’s been difficult to keep count.”

Claude lets out a breath. “It has been a long night,” he agrees. “We lucked out finding a cave to hide in for a bit. Figured we’d wait until they moved past, then try and get out of here. Come back with reinforcements. I never thought bandits would wait around so long for a pretty insignificant target. Or that there’d be so many of them.” 

“I think Edelgard would have quite a lot to say about your calling her ‘insignificant’.”

“Edelgard, now, is it? Here I thought she was ‘ _El_ ’.”

The tracks around the driver’s body are muddled and difficult to see beneath the ferns covering the forest floor. Still, after a few minutes consideration Byleth thinks she sees a noticeably smaller set than many of the others. The path they take shadows the livestock trail backward, toward the place where they’d left the cart. 

As she follows the trail as best she can, the boys noisily dogging her heels, she does a quick bodycount in her head. Three bandits and a knight in the forest near the carriage. One that attacked Claude. Six more with Dimitri. 

“The ten from the carriage attack are accounted for, if you were correct,” she says, musing, “But we should expect more.”

Dimitri asks, “What makes you think that?” 

“Were any of the Knights diverted with you?”

“No,” says Claude, his voice going distant and… was she imagining the cold edge there? “But I don’t think we mentioned having any Knights with us.”

“There was a body in the woods wearing Seiros’ armor. It’s likely they tracked you and ran into the same group that was already up here. That or…” She pauses, thinking better of explaining the more gruesome possibilities; if only because there are a lot. “Mm. Either way, there’s a possibility they did not defeat the group from the initial ambush, first.”

“Shit,” mutters Claude.

“If they can take down a Knight of Seiros…” Dimitri murmurs. He doesn’t sound happy about their odds, and Byleth can’t blame him.

Still, she surprises herself by answering, “No battle is ever certain, no matter how many advantages a side may have, or how weak an enemy might seem. All it takes is one wrong step to turn the tide.”

“That’s rather profound for a random merc,” Claude observes. “No offense.”

She shrugs a single shoulder. “Would this ‘Edelgard’ have attempted to return to the road?”

“She may have,” Dimitri agrees. “We agreed to double back and look for help before we were separated. Once we got our bearings, that is.”

Not an entirely unsound plan, that. Though doing so risked her running into more bandits, there was also a chance that she would find their lost escort. Or that she would find the Strikers.

No sooner does Byleth have the thought, than does she register the sounds of horses and snuffling warhounds ahead of them. The boys both stop; their heavy tread going quiet behind her. She slows to a stop several paces ahead. Looking over her shoulder, she finds them standing stiff; weapons drawn and faces grim. 

“Byleth!”

The sound of her name draws her attention back to the livestock trail. Through the trees, she makes out the carriage and the poor, murdered horses still stuck to the trap that claimed them. 

Behind the vehicle are several more horses; some with figures atop their backs and others with riders leading them about. She recognizes the largest of them as her father, and the dogs shuffling about near the carriage; likely looking for her scent. 

She steps out of the forest line before the dogs can give chase, ignoring the twin hisses of surprise from her new companions. “Here!”

The houndmaster whistles, calling the dogs away from their duty as Jeralt somehow sags with relief and tenses with fury simultaneously while swiftly closing the distance between them. “What were you thinking running off on your own like—”

His tirade cuts short with the rustle of woods behind her. Before he can draw his blade on the boys, Byleth steps between them. “They needed help. I helped them. The bandits _were_ in the woods, as it turns out. A lot of them. I think there may be a nest.”

“Forgive us, Sir,” says Dimitri. He steps into the periphery of Byleth’s vision and sketches a quick, polished bow in Jeralt’s direction. “Your—ah—Byleth?”

She nods.

“Byleth saved our lives today. We were incredibly fortunate she came along when she did.”

“What Golden Boy is trying to say is ‘thank you,’” says Claude, nudging Byleth’s shoulder and giving her a wink. The smile on his lips doesn’t quite match his eyes. “Also, she said she’s a mercenary. This is your Company, I take it?”

“The Strikers,” Jeralt informs them, seemingly by rote. His shrewd gaze gives both boys the once over. “You’re Academy students? Out here by yourselves?”

Dimitri nods. “We are. Or, rather, we will be. This was supposed to be our last test before taking leadership of our respective Houses when the school year begins. You’re familiar with the Academy?”

“Something like that.” Jeralt scans the treeline. “How many of them would you say, Bye?”

“Ten dead, so far, with a small force yet unaccounted for. There’s also a missing girl, and potentially missing Knights. The attacks, as they were recounted to me, suggest planning, coordination, and long-term use of the area. I suspect there’s at least a semi-permanent encampment somewhere nearby.”

“Alright. I guess we’re taking care of this _now,_ rather than… Let's just hope Charon doesn’t screw us on the contract.” He sighs, and raises a hand back to the riders. A short series of gestures later, the two mounted men turn and spur their horses back along the trail presumably to wherever they left the main force. The houndmaster and rest of the riders draw their horses off to the side to tether. 

“Charon, you said? He contracted this out to you?” Jeralt and Byleth look at Dimitri, who stands strong beneath their combined stares. 

“We were on our way to speak with him about it,” Jeralt says, after a minute. “You’re sure they’ve taken this girl?”

Dimitri’s lips thins into a hard, worried line. “I did not say they have, though I admit it is a possibility. Edelgard is a strong fighter, but she was alone. She may have made her way back to the road, however.”

Jeralt shakes his head, less in a negating way and more… exasperated? Tired? Byleth isn’t certain. 

“Possible,” the Captain agrees, “But not probable. We likely would have seen her by now if she was just looking for help.”

“There is also the matter of the Knights,” Byleth puts in.

“Yeah. You said ‘potentially’ missing. Explain.”

Over the next few minutes, the boys fully recount the attack to Jeralt—adding occasional input from Byleth noting details she’d noticed upon her arrival to the scene. Together, the four walk into the woods with a couple of the warhounds, retracing Byleth’s steps to where the body of the fallen Knight still lays. 

Jeralt rolls the woman over, and pulls off her helmet. He sighs, then reaches down to close her eyelids. “I agree it’s likely there’s more. Our intel said he expected the group to be fairly large. If there were… let’s say five at the road, and another ten back here, we’re probably looking for a camp primarily with support personnel and no more than, mm, another five fighters at most.”

“Unless it was like the last group,” Byleth says.

“ _That_ group was holed up in a town,” Geralt reminds her, “That means more resources than something out here is liable to have. But you have a point. We can’t be sure their support won’t pose a threat, either.”

“Support? For thieves?” Dimitri asks, sounding somewhat offended by the idea.

“They’re still people,” Byleth reminds him.

He blinks at her as though slapped, spluttering, “I—I am aware of that. It is just—why would anyone—?”

Cutting through their aside, Jeralt looks at the boys and asks, “The rest of the Knights won’t come looking for you?”

Claude tips his head to one side in question, but takes the conversational shift in stride. “Other than the one probably roaming around somewhere out here? Not likely. We weren’t supposed to arrive back at the monastery until later this morning. They probably won’t consider us missing until… later tonight, at best.”

Jeralt nods vaguely and stands. “It could be sooner than that. We didn’t find any sign of a carriage on the road. Then again, we weren’t looking for one. I don’t think we can assume it made it back in one piece.”

Claude’s eyebrows draw together as he continues trying to puzzle this out. “Sounds right, but what does that have to do with this?” 

“Just taking stock of our options,” says Jeralt. Byleth isn’t so sure he’s not more worried about _meeting_ the Knights, but she knows better than to voice those thoughts. “We’ll need to comb the forest. Look for paths. Given their set-up, it’s reasonable to believe they’ve used this plan before. There’ll be evidence somewhere.”

“Right,” the boys say in unison. 

Just then, one of the dogs, still wandering around the group, yips and points at a nearby tangle of blackberries. There’s something bright caught in the thorns. Byleth goes to it immediately, leaning over the dogs and brush to pluck a scrap of bright vermillion cloth. 

Claude’s eyes narrow sharply, as Dimitri pales. “That’s Edelgard’s.”

“Don’t go jumping to conclusions, now,” Jeralt warns, “There’s a lot of ways that could have ended up there.” 

Despite his words, he looks worried. As he should be. Yes, there are many ways this could have ended up in the scrub. None of them are pleasant. Byleth rubs the fabric between her fingers. One edge is darker than the rest, and stiff with dried blood. She glances at the dogs; waiting; salivating. 

“Let us track her.”

“We’re waiting on the rest—”

“We’ve already wasted a lot of time. If we wait much longer she could be dead,” Byleth reminds him, a little unsure why she needs to. He knows, as well as she, that their time may _already_ be out on this. Someone has to move. “The dogs can track her, and they listen well to me. I’ll mark a trail for you to follow.”

“ _We_ will mark the trail,” Dimitri interjects. “If there’s a chance Edelgard could still be alive, we must try to find her as quickly as possible.”

“And if this force is larger than you expect? What then?” 

“Then we hold,” Claude interjects. At Dimitri’s dark look, he shakes his head. “Sorry, Highness. I want to get Edelgard out of this alive, too, but there’s no sense in us dying alongside her. We track her down, and assess the situation when we get there. If it’s too hot, we wait for backup.”

Though reluctant, Dimitri nods. “Agreed.”

Jeralt looks between all three of them, clearly noting Dimitri’s furthered scowl, before rounding on Byleth. “Assess the situation. Only act if you have to _and_ you’re certain you can get out of there. Understood?”

She nods once, stiffly, and he nods back. “Go.”

Byleth lowers herself down to the dogs’ level, presenting them with the scrap of Edelgard’s cape. “Find,” she commands, just as their master would.

The two dogs snuff at the cape, and the blood, before they begin combing the ground for Edelgard’s scent. Just past the brambles, they find it. Their long, spine-tingling bays echo through the woods as they dash further into the forest. Byleth and the boys follow quickly in their wake. 

Behind them, her father calls, “If you die, you get to explain yourself to Luca!”

### #

“Do either of you have a knife?” 

Claude produces a pocket knife from… somewhere. Byleth suspects his sleeve, though the movement was so quick and practiced not even she could be certain. He winks as he hands it over. 

“Thank you,” she says by rote as she examines the weapon. It’s a fine piece of work, as to be expected from the boy’s apparent nobility. Less hefty and altogether more artistic than the peasant pocket knives she’s used to, but the blade is solid enough for what it is. Not as good as a proper handaxe or her full-tang dagger would be—no pocket knife could ever match up—but it should work for what she needs.

“Not a problem. In fact, consider it a gift. For helping us.”

“If you insist. Follow the dogs, I’ll catch up.” She breaks away from their lot, and jogs to a nearby tree. A quick swipe along its bark cuts a neat strip away, revealing a line of white-and-green sapwood; enough to be noticeable in the forest gloom. 

She catches up to the boys before marking another tree, and then another, and another. Between the broken trail of their passage and the marks, the rest of the Strikers ought to have no trouble following their path into the forest. 

Neither will anyone else. They’ll have to keep an ear out for anyone following them. 

Unfortunately, she doesn’t recognize the brightening of the light between the tree trunks until the dogs have already broken through the line and into another, larger clearing ahead; more kin to a fallow field than a meadow. Their howls change from joyous bays of pursuit to the loud, warning notes of a quarry found.

Byleth rushes to the front and whistles twice, the notes sharp and clear. The dogs break off pursuit, turning a wide arch away from the tents they’d been rushing. They slow to panting stops and look back at her apparent confusion. Byleth feels rather confused herself. 

“Where are they?” asks Dimitri, stepping up beside her. His gaze skims over a dozen silent, unmoving tents and the smouldering remains of a cooking fire. Two carts of dissimilar make and markings sit on the far side, stacked with supplies. There are no livestock, however. No sound of human life at all. The knee-high grass at the forests’ edge buzzes with a rising, insectile symphony, providing the only backdrop to the strange scene. 

Claude appears to the other side, taking all this in as quickly, and murmurs, “They _had_ to have heard us coming. It’s probably another ambush.”

“But the dogs found something, didn’t they?” asks Dimitri. “She could be in there.”

Byleth nods, once, but when Dimitri tries to go around her she blocks him with an arm. 

“I have to try,” he says. 

Byleth glances at the tents again. “Call to her. If she doesn’t answer, we wait.”

“She could be dying!” 

“And if there are archers between here and there, we could as well.”

His eyes—those same, haunted blue eyes—narrow at her briefly before he nods and steps back behind her. Dimitri clears his throat and raises his voice to carry as he calls, “Edelgard? Are you in there?”

Byleth has to give him this; he knows how to project. His voice rings out through the meadow in a way that she wouldn’t have been able to manage. Like a commander on a battlefield, trained to lead from birth. 

Actually… Claude had called Dimitri ‘Highness’, hadn’t he? He’d done it in a way that sounded like sarcasm, though to be fair, she’d never been very good at identifying sarcasm. And yesterday, in the bailey, he’d called their friend ‘Princess.’ Could he be serious—?

Her thoughts skitter sideways when a pale-gold head pokes out of one of the tents. “Dimitri?” 

Both the boys sigh in relief, though Dimitri sighs just a little harder. He tries to step forward again, then remembers himself. “Thank the Goddess you’re alright. Do you know where the bandits went?”

“They’re dead, mostly.”

The girl exits the tent, brushing her hair over her shoulder as she stands. Her clothes are dirty and stained, and the cape she wears is half torn off. A line of blood runs down her arm from a bandaged wound. Otherwise, she looks perfectly composed. As though she hasn’t been fighting alone for at least… an hour? Two? 

Strangely, that isn’t what makes Byleth so uneasy. No. There’s something about this girl’s presence that calls to her as alarmingly as Dimitri’s gaze had. Something magnetic and primal, urging her forward despite herself. 

Byleth digs her heels in, resisting the urge with all her might. 

The girl approaches the edge of the encampment, a bloody axe dangling from her good arm, and pauses when she sees the war dogs milling through the grass. “Where are you? Did you find Claude?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head about me, Princess,” Claude says. He glances at Byleth who, now that it appears no one was waiting to ambush them after all, finally nods. The boys step out of cover together, though neither appears any more willing to cross the warhounds’ path than Edelgard. Neither do they appear to notice the slight narrowing of Edelgard’s eyes.

“We found Anton’s body,” Dimitri is saying, “What happened?”

“What do you think?” Edelgard’s gaze cuts immediately to Byleth as, finally, the mercenary takes one guarded step out of the trees and into the meadow behind the others, though her words remain for them, “He didn’t see the blow coming. I thought that might be self evident.”

“Today certainly hasn’t improved your mood any, I see,” says Claude. “You managed a whole encampment by yourself?”

“Do not sound so surprised, Claude.” Edelgard sniffs indignantly. “But no. I ran into the Knights shortly after Anton fell. We lost Patricia, but Alois, Isabelle, and Troy helped me track the stragglers back here. We thought it best to take care of the source of the problem quickly. Who is this?”

Dimitri recovers first from the quick change of topics. He glances back at Byleth and waves her closer. After a second’s hesitation, she takes another step forward, moving in between the boys, and only startles the faintest bit when Dimitri’s hand rests lightly upon her upper back as he introduces her. 

“This is… Byleth, wasn’t it?”

She nods.

“We met her and her mercenary group a short while ago. It seems Lord Charon had already hired them out to deal with this precise issue before the Church became involved.”

“That certainly explains the warhounds,” Edelgard agrees. The slightest smile stretches across her lips as she bows to Byleth in much the same manner Dimitri had to Jeralt, earlier. “You have done the Empire a great service today, ensuring the safety of these two. I—”

Whatever else she’d been about to say gets cut off as the dogs spring to alertness, placing themselves between the group and the far side of the forest. Seconds later, Byleth hears the crashing from within. 

Instantly, she grabs Edelgard by the arm, jerking the girl behind her before any protest can be made. Byleth draws her sword and snaps her fingers to the dogs who all shift into a battle stance.

“Get ready. We have company.” 

Across the clearing, several saplings sway at the forest line before a large, burly man in tattered leathers comes barreling through. Byleth’s eyes widen as the three students gasp.

The bandit leader is easily the largest man Byleth has ever seen; even bigger than her own father. He stands at least three heads taller than Jeralt would, with biceps larger around than the barrel-chested warhounds at her feet. When he sees them, the leader stops and flexes those impressive shoulders at their line, popping his neck so loudly she can hear it across the field.

“There she is!” the brute roars, leveling an axe the size of Byleth’s torso at their group. His gaze is fixed on a point behind her; he hasn’t even really seemed to register her presence at all, despite her position. “I’m gonna tear you limb from limb, you conniving bitch!”

Behind him, several more bandits spill from the forest line. All are clearly bandits, all show signs of recent battle, and all very much alive. Two archers, she counts, two swordsmen, and the brute.

“You again?” Edelgard sounds affronted. She steps up to Byleth’s side, brandishing her own weapon. “I thought you had at least enough sense to run away.”

Claude sighs. “So much for waiting on backup.”

“Don’t go rushing ahead, El. We need to work together on this,” Dimitri says as the bandits spread out around them. “Byleth, do you have any ideas?”

Without taking her eyes off the big one, Byleth nods briefly. Keeping her voice light, she orders, “I need _you_ to get that guy’s attention. Harass him. Keep out of his reach while Edelgard, Claude, and I whittle out the extras. Archers go down first. Edelgard, when I go right, you go left. Got it?”

To her surprise, the girl grunts a soft affirmative without question. That’s… surprising. Given Edelgard’s apparent attitude, she’d expected resistance. There’s no time to think about that, though.

“Listen to them! _Planning_? Hah! This is cute. Go ahead. Try us. We’ve survived worse than you Church brats.” The big brute laughs viciously. He lifts his hand to signal something, and Byleth cuts him off with a whistle in three staccato bursts. 

The warhounds dash forward at the same time that the archers begin to draw their bows. One realizes what’s about to happen in time. He shifts targets, but the warhound dives to one side so that the arrowhead skims a bloody line across its back. 

The other lets a shot loose directly at Claude, just before a maw-full of sharp, canine teeth sinks into his leg. Claude hisses in pain, but Byleth doesn’t look back. At least she didn’t hear the sound of an arrow hitting flesh. 

Her focus is the archer currently prancing backwards from the marked warhound. A roar from the bandit leader fills her ears, and distantly she hears a crash of metal againt splitting wood. 

A glint of light to her left. She leaps to the side in time to avoid a blow from the nearby swordsman, twirls on one foot, and comes around to parry his next strike. 

The archer she’d been after screams. A dog growls; low, feral and wet. The sound of torn flesh and the acrid scent of fresh blood blooms around her as the screaming swells and breaks. It dies in a guttural, gut-churning squelch. 

Dimitri shouts “Edelgard!” behind her, but Byleth is already blocking another parry from the swordsman. She presses hard and he stumbles back, tripping over something furry and dark, but not quite falling. He doesn’t fall as her blade slides home, either, wetting itself with his blood from tip to hilt. 

She presses her boot to what’s left of his stomach, kicking his corpse backward as she yanks her blade free. 

The archer is dead nearby; throat torn open and arrows protruding from several soft places. The warhound lies beneath the swordsman’s legs. It still breathes, but a dagger hilt protrudes sharply from its side. She leaves it, for now. 

Just then an arrow zips past Byleth’s ear. She turns sharply to see Claude, eyes wide and focused on something behind her. His warning shout is drowned beneath a roar like an oncoming demonic beast.

Quickly, Byleth tumbles to the side in time to avoid the axe coming down on her back. 

As she rises, the brute hefts the axeblade back out of the earth, dragging tendrils of grass and clumps of damp soul with it. He seems utterly oblivious to the arrows flecking his torso. 

This close, it’s easier to see the strange, grey tint to the man’s skin and the red veins in his eyes. There’s something wrong with him, and it isn’t limited to his unusual size. 

He’s bleeding from more than just the arrow wounds. There’s a gash dribbling blood down his side, and several deep cuts along his exposed chest that ought to have bled him out by now.

“What _is_ he?” whispers the girl in her mind.

“Get back here!” the man screams, bloody spittle flying in every direction. He swings wide, forcing Byleth backward to avoid the axe. She dives again for the ground. Gets on her feet. Leaps backward again. Across the field he drives her, each evasion moving her dangerously close to the restrictive confines of the tents.

Where are Dimitri and Edelgard?

A black shape darts between the brute’s legs and he stumbles. It’s enough that Byleth can get some distance between them. The warhound starts to come back around, clearly intent on harassing the man’s ankles, but Byleth whistles a cease command. She’s lost one of them. She won’t lose a second.

As the bandit rights himself, seemingly a little woozy in the moment, a flash of pale hair appears from between the tents. Edelgard dives in between them, axe up to slice the man’s throat open. Byleth’s breath locks in her throat. Please let her hit, she prays fervently to no one at all. 

It looks like a sure thing.

Then, at the last second, the man lurches backward out of Edelgard’s range. His great axe comes around, slapping her weapon from her grip with the flat of his blade, underscored by the crunching of bones breaking. Edelgard shrieks. The man’s arm reaches its apex. 

His axe descends for the killing blow.

“No!”

Just like that, Byleth’s body is not her own. She lunges forward on pure instinct, grabbing the girl and turning her back to the blade as though that will stop what’s to come. 

Metal bites into her flesh. Agony bursts behind her eyes and—

The world slows around her. Droplets of her own blood seem to float, suspended in the air. The pain recedes as that howling, terrible darkness tugs at the corner of her vision… and everything… goes… 

Black.

### #

“How could you be so foolish!” 

Byleth snaps around at the sound of the child’s voice. She lurches, unsteady on her feet and disoriented by the sudden shift in her surroundings, and the lack of weight in her arms.. 

She’s not in the forest anymore. There’s no tents, nor grass. Edelgard is gone, and so is Byleth’s blade. So are her wounds; her blood. 

She stands, perfect and pristine upon the mosaic floor of the jade throne room, facing down the glowering, fully awoken child upon the throne. The girl’s cheeks are pink with rage; her green eyes narrowed and sparking with fury. Somehow, despite her miniscule stature and chubby cheeks, she looks as fearsome as any great, wild beast ready to pounce.

“You will get us both killed acting so impetuously!”

“She would have died—”

“And do you think that I want her to? No!” The girl throws her hands up and rises in the same motion. Her gestures are wild and sharp as she speaks, pacing along the length of her dais. “I saw her, the same as you did. I _felt_ the calling of her soul. And _his_. And—and perhaps the other one as well. What was his name?”

“Claude,” supplies Byleth, by rote. “What—”

“Yes, that is one! Less so with him than the others, but it is _there_ , is it not? You—” here the girl stops again to point at her “—You will pay attention to him this time. Cease your foolish fancying about that other boy, and pay _attention_ . Whatever this is, whoever they are, they are _all_ important. I can feel it.”

Byleth’s cheeks burn as she struggles to keep up. Can the dead blush? Is this what hel is supposed to be like? Embarrassing as it is confusing? “I’m pretty sure I just died, actually, so I’m probably not going to be paying attention to much. And besides that, who _are_ you?”

“You don’t know who I am?” The girl’s voice rises an octave as she rears back with apparent indignation, “I am—”

She stops, focus turning inward as her eyes narrow. Finally, she completes, “I am not sure, actually. I… seem to be having some trouble with my memory. It is most unsettling.”

Byleth, who understands all too well what _that’s_ like, relaxes somewhat. Then she remembers the voice she’s been hearing most of the morning; the one giving orders and hints. “Wait. You said I’d get _us_ killed. Are you—are you _inside_ me? How—?”

The girl sighs and slumps back onto her throne. “I am afraid that I do not understand much more about this situation than you do, at present. Only that it appears I do not currently have a body of my own.”

“So, you’re dead, too.”

“Neither of us is dead! Ugh. Must you be so obstinate?” The girl shakes her head. “No. I can only conclude that, for some unknown reason, my soul has attached itself to yours. That is the most reasonable explanation, anyway. At least until we have found further information.”

“Right,” says Byleth. “That seems…” 

It seems crazy, is what she wants to say. But then again, when has she ever not been crazy? And weird. And wrong. Sure, this situation might be several leagues above her usual levels of oddity, but it isn’t so far out there that Byleth is willing to let it unsettle her for long. 

The girl’s eyes narrow even further, as though she can hear Byleth’s very thoughts. Rather than address any of them, the girl says, “Which brings us back to the topic at hand. We will discuss the particulars later, you and I. For now, all you need to know is that I have the power to get us out of our immediate predicament— _this_ time.”

“You can raise the dead?”

“As I have stated repeatedly, you are not dead _yet_. I stopped time before he could hit anything vital. We needed to have a conversation, you and I, about not taking foolish risks.” The child shakes her head in a way so ancient and motherly that Byleth feels her world perception shift just a little beneath her feet. “Now, before anything else is done, we need a way to solve this that will not also end us before we have even begun.”

Like that, the scene around Byleth shifts again. Once more, she is standing in the field, looking at herself from afar—and at the axe lodging itself into her spine millimeter by millimeter. The wide-eyed terror on her own face; expression mirrored perfectly by the girl held in her arms. Blood spurting in all directions. Triumphant glee written across the bandit’s horrible face. 

He doesn’t even notice Dimitri behind him, lance poised for one last lunge, or Claude’s arrow flying straight and true, angled precisely to sink through his eye and into his brain. That both the boys are wounded in their own rights doesn’t matter. They would have ended him. Edelgard hadn’t _needed_ to get involved. 

Beside her, the inhumane girl nods at Byleth’s thoughts. “I agree,” she says softly. “So, then. You know what you must do?”

Just like that, a plan—deceptively simple, but simple is often best—forms in Byleth’s mind. “I do.”

“Good. I think I can give you the time.”

A swirling mote of green rises from around the girl’s spectral body. It pulses, green and vibrant as spring grass, and blossoms into a swirling disk around her hands. The disk pulses once, archaic symbols scrawling themselves all around as the disk multiplies itself before her. She adjusts the various arrays in pairs, using both hands and humming calculations beneath her breath. And then—

Then time _unfurls_.

The axe withdraws from Byleth’s back. Her blood flies backwards, re-entering her body and closing her wounds. The pain abruptly ceases as her feet move backward through the grass. 

Back within her own body, she watches as Edelgard’s weapon returns to her hand, and the bandit’s blade rises back for his first strike. 

“Edelgard!” The cry rips from her throat as time returns to itself with a strange, molasses pop. 

She lunges forward. Grabs the girl roughly by the back of her uniform and drags her backward into the grass. 

The air of the bandit’s weapon rushes over their heads, missing them by inches and sending both their hair flying. 

It’s followed by two meaty, wet thunks, and a burbling gurgle of fresh blood. 

Byleth rolls to the side, and both of the girls look up at the lance blade jutting from the bandit’s chest, matched by the quivering arrow planted in his eye. 

“AaaAaaaAaahhhh,” the man moans; one last, dying note before his body slackens and slumps. 

They scramble to their feet and back away before he can fall on top of them. Slow footsteps approach from behind, before Claude appears next to Byleth. His face is paler than it should be; his eyes sorrowful and dark. And the girl was right. Byleth feels it there, too. That same, strange pull drawing her like the tide desperately seeking the blessings of the moon.

Behind the dead brute, Dimitri lets his lance go; allowing his weapon to remain where it’s buried as he, too, stares at what they have wrought together. None of them says a single word. None of them can.


	4. In the Goddess' Eye

**Day 15 Great Tree Moon, Year 1180**

The warhound isn’t dead. Byleth pushes a bandit’s legs off the dog and crouches to examine it. A dagger still protrudes from it’s ribs, and its yellow eyes are glassy with pain. She isn’t a trained healer by any means, but she has enough battlefield experience to recognize the faint hiss in the dog’s laboured breath and the blood bubbling at its lips. The dagger has likely punctured a lung. But unlike the horse’s wounds from earlier, this _could_ be survivable. If she’s quick and careful. 

Hoping that she isn’t about to make things worse, she calls, “I need a hand.”

To her surprise, it’s Edelgard that joins her first. The other girl kneels in the sticky mud opposite her and frowns at the scene. “What do you need me to do?”

“Take hold of the dagger, but don’t pull it out until you see the disk flash,” Byleth instructs as she begins to call her magic forth. 

Edelgard gets as far as “What disk—” before the magic coalesces in the air above the dog. 

The spiraling, symbol-strewn disk flashes, and Edelgard yanks the dagger free. The dog yelps and whines as the glittering magic falls like snow over its body. It continues to whimper as it’s breathing accelerates and the wounds slowly stitch together. 

Quietly, Dimitri asks, “Will it be okay?”

The two boys, having joined them, stand above the girls in wildly different states of distress. Dimitri seems alarmingly concerned over a dog. His face is pale and his eyes are just as glassy as the animal’s. He leans heavily on his lance, and swallows a little too often as he watches the dog struggle to breathe. Beside him, Claude seems resigned but not overly sentimental about the possible loss. He meets Byleth’s eyes and offers the faintest of smiles. Possibly the first real one she’s seen from him. 

Beneath her hand, the healing slows, and stops. The blood remains; the puncture isn’t fully closed. Immediately, Byleth begins drawing another spell. 

A sudden wave of dizziness stops her short. Edelgard braces a hand against Byleth’s shoulder to steady her when she sways. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m tapped,” Byleth says, voice dipping blearily. She shakes her head, the rush of motion steadying her, and sits up straight again. At her knees, the warhound continues to whine. It’s breathing is steadier, however, and she has to take that as a good sign. 

She pats the dog’s neck fondly, and rubs her thumb soothingly along the underside of it’s muzzle. The dog’s stumpy tail thumps against the ground. “I think it’ll be fine. Their master should be along, soon. He’ll know better what to do.”

“Speaking of other people coming along, should we really be hanging out here?” Claude scans the treeline nervously, fidgeting with his bow. He swipes a hand through the blood on his cheek, beneath a scabbing line cut just beneath his eye. “There could be more bandits.”

“There _were_ four others who got away from us earlier, when I was with the Knights. I do not think those men were the same as these. The large one certainly was not with them, and I did not recognize his backup,” says Edelgard, “The Knights gave the others chase and told me to wait here. I expect they will be back shortly.”

“Ah. I _was_ wondering where the Knights had gone,” says Dimitri in a tone that’s as difficult to read as his face. He’s still watching the dog; his breath coming in time with the animal’s.

Claude remains silent, but watches Edelgard with furrowed brows. When he notices Byleth watching him in turn, his expression lightens and he jerks his chin toward her in acknowledgement.

“What do you think? Should we stay and wait, just in case, or try and make our way back to your group?”

Standing, she takes a better survey of the field now that things have calmed down. 

From the field’s periphery she hadn’t been able to see the bodies strewn on the other side of the bandits’ old tents. These must have been to so-called ‘support’ her father expected; likely a few spouses or grown children and siblings better suited to domestic work; bookkeepers; possibly a grifter or two who’d watch the nearby towns for potential marks. No young children with this lot. That’s a small mercy. 

Of her three companions, all are wounded but none are dying. There’s the red, swollen beginnings of a bruise forming along the left side of Edelgard’s jaw, like she’s been punched. For a moment Byleth is concerned—the image of that axe slapping Edelgard askew like a ragdoll plays on the back of her eyelids—but—but no, that had been Edelgard’s _right_ side. This is different. 

More importantly, this is _real_ , and now that the moment it’s passed Byleth isn’t so certain her hallucination was. Magic or no magic, it seems too… extraordinary. 

Conveniently, no voice--in or outside of her head--chooses to argue the point.

Swallowing her unease, she glances over the boys. Claude is the least obviously damaged. The cut on his cheek bled profusely, as facial wounds are wont to do, but other than some new stains and dirt he seems to have stayed out of the scrum. 

From the way that Dimitri is subtly clutching his side, and the darkness of the surrounding fabric, she suspects his previous wound reopened. Her magic might not have been enough to sufficiently heal the area beforehand. Or perhaps it’s a new wound entirely. Either way, it explains some of his demeanor.

None of them are fit to do much more fighting. Neither is Byleth, given her reaction to a simple healing spell. At the same time, She’s unsure about trying to find their way to the Company. It’s a decent walk back to where they were, and it’s still unclear whether there might be more enemies lurking in the woods. 

“We need to get out of direct sight,” she says, as she reorients herself using the encampment and the angle of the sun as a guide. Finally, she finds the point where she believes they emerged from the woods. Rather than make directly for it, however, she chooses a spot close enough that they should be able to see anyone following the trail they’d left earlier.

That just leaves one matter.

Though she’s loath to hurt him further, Byleth stoops to gather the warhound into her arms. 

“Let me help you,” says Edelgard. She moves to take the dogs’ back end, smart enough to stay well clear of its mouth when it doesn’t know her, and Byleth decides it’s better not to protest; not with the warning ache of exhaustion sapping at her bones. 

“On three,” Edelgard instructs. At her count, the girls lift and carry the whimpering animal into the woods with them, with the boys and its pack mate trailing behind.

### #

They post up beneath a large elm with several trees between them, the encampment, and the trail they blazed earlier that day. The undergrowth is full enough to break up the lines of their bodies, though Byleth side-eyes the others’ brightly coloured, ridiculously obvious capes with trepidation. She doesn’t say anything about it, though. If help comes, they’ll want to be noticable. 

Dimitri squats beside the wounded warhound, feet flat to the ground and balanced so he can easily pick himself up again. He allows the animal to sniff his fingers before rubbing its ears. The other dog immediately comes to investigate, and is treated to more pets. 

Byleth observes this with a raised eyebrow from where she leans against their chosen tree. As the two least wounded, she and Claude have posted themselves on opposite sides of the trunk to watch for danger. Edelgard rests at their feet. 

“I noticed that you use magic,” Edeglard says abruptly. Her intense violet eyes search Byleth’s face as though she had asked a question. Byleth decides, after an awkward pause, to pretend she had. 

“Some.”

“That surprised me, too,” offers Claude. “But _I_ wasn’t gouch enough to question it.”

“Am I being rude?” Edelgard doesn’t sound worried about it, if she is. “I am grateful for your help, of course, it is merely that magic—as I was taught—takes years of education and study to control. It is not a talent one normally finds amongst common mercenaries.”

“No,” Byleth agrees. 

There’s another long pause, during which Dimitri also turns that haunting gaze of his upon her once again. Eventually, Byleth realizes they’re expecting her to say more. 

But what? Without the impetus of immediate danger or a specific problem to solve, her ability to speak seems to have dwindled in her throat. Should she tell them about the old mage who used to work with the Company back when it was Leroy’s Strikers, before her father took over? He’d taught her the basics of offensive spellwork, though she’d never been very good with this methodology. Or should she explain that she’s always known how to heal; that the knowledge had been retained along with her swordsmanship when everything else was stolen away by a severe head wound?

Both possibilities seem an awful lot to dump on people she’s only just met. 

Claude, again, comes to her rescue. “Hey, maybe, since she just saved our asses, we should hold off on the interrogation? Just a thought.” 

“You do not need to be crude, Claude. But point taken. My apologies, Byleth,” says Edelgard. Her intensity dims almost instantly as she offers Byleth a small, though sincere enough, smile. “An interrogation was not my intention. I am merely quite… _fascinated_ , I think. Not many people would charge in to help complete strangers as you have, and certainly not with so much apparent skill.”

“She is quite extraordinary at that,” Dimitri agrees. His smile is less reserved than Edelgard’s, though his skin is flush with pain. “I know I said something of this earlier, but thank you, again, for everything you and yours have done here today. I do wonder—”

“Actually, Dimitri, I had not finished—” Edelgard interrupts, only to be interrupted herself by approaching footsteps and a warning snarl from their remaining warhound. 

All four of them tense, looking sharply toward the field. Through the trees they can just see the glint of sunlight on pale plate armor. 

“Edelgard?” shouts a new voice, “Where is that girl? Goddess, that one’s big. Look at the size of him! Troy, search those tents. Isabelle, see what you can find on this lot. Edelgard!”

The Imperial girl sighs. She tries to get up, but fumbles and falls back into the grass. Dimitri, on the other hand, stands with no more trouble than a wince. He offers Edelgard a hand up, which she accepts after a second’s hesitation. 

“Thank you,” the girl mumbles.

“My pleasure,” he says, then raises his voice, “Over here, Alois!”

“Dimitri? Is that you?”

A Knight of Seiros comes stomping through the forestline casually as a bull through a broken fence. 

Another warning growl puts the man on pause, before Byleth remembers her manners. She snaps her fingers, and points to the ground beside her. Immediately, both dogs try to move to her. One succeeds in finding its marked position at her heel. The other whines tragically as it struggles just to sit up. 

Byleth sinks into a crouch to comfort the wounded animal, assuring it that it does not need to heel.

While she does this, the Knight removes his helmet to reveal a baby-faced gentleman with thick brown hair and a beard trimmed to emphasize his laugh lines. He beams at the three students. “There you all are! Thank the Goddess. I was worried we’d lost you all. Especially when you—well. That doesn’t matter, now, I suppose. Edelgard said you’d fallen.”

“Well, how’s that for some faith,” drawls Claude.

Defensively, Edelguard snaps, “It was a logical assumption, given the circumstances. When neither of you reappeared, I… Well, I…”

“We made it out alive, that is what matters,” Dimitri cuts in as she fumbles. “Alois, did you find the other bandits?”

“All taken care of,” the Knight assures him. His smile dims somewhat as he shakes his head. “Those we know about, anyway. I don’t know if you noticed, but it seems this job is far larger in scale than we understood.”

“Normally, I’d have some kind of sarcastic remark to make about that,” says Claude, his own smile forced and brittle despite his carefree tone, “but given how this day’s going can we just agree this was a _bit_ much? I’m not against hard work, but I’d have prepared a lot differently if we’d known ‘skirmish with some bandits on the road’ actually meant ‘spend a whole night hiding from a tribe of bandits in a forest, then fight a monster-sized thug to the death.’”

Edelgard shakes her head. “The fault is still ours. We must learn to prepare for the unexpected, always. Whether or not this is what we expected to handle, it is what we had to contend with.”

“The world may not structure itself to our desires, Edelgard, but it is fair to note that our facts could have been more thoroughly checked _before_ we set off,” says Dimitri. “Regardless, we should be on our way sooner than later. If there are more bandits remaining in these woods, I am afraid I may not be of much use against them.”

“If there are more bandits, the Strikers will find them,” says Byleth. 

The rest of the group jumps, and turns to face her as a unit. Claude softly laughs. “You’re so quiet. I think we forgot you were back there.”

One corner of Byleth’s mouth twitches toward something that might be a smile, until she notices the Knight—Alois, she thinks his name is—staring at her. He looks pole-axed, as though confronted with a ghost. 

“Hestia…?”

“Excuse me?”

Alois shakes himself and blinks rapidly. When he’s recovered he smiles, genuine and open, and extends her a hand to help her to her feet. “No, excuse me! I’m sorry, Miss, you just—well. It’s remarkable, really. You look _exactly_ like someone I used to know.”

Byleth looks between him and his hand for a few moments too long before she takes it. 

He tugs her back to her feet, and glances at the dogs. “These are yours, I take it?”

“My Company’s, yes.”

“Your Company—ah! The Strikers! Right. That’s what you said.” His thick eyebrows draw into a knot. “The _Strikers_. Huh. That rings a bell, actually. Why do I know that name?”

“Wait,” drawls Claude. His green eyes have narrowed again as he re-examines Byleth in a way she is even less comfortable with than Alois’ mistaking her for someone else. “Weren’t the Strikers involved in the border skirmishes last year?”

“With Almyra?” 

He nods, and so does Byleth. 

“Nasty business,” says Alois. “I heard that didn’t go well for the Alliance. Ah—no offense, Claude.”

“None taken,” Claude says as every hint of hostility abruptly drains from everything but his eyes. “Gramps knew he was biting off more than he could chew. I’m just sorry so many people had to die before he called it off.”

Alois claps a hand down on Claude’s shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the boy’s wince as he gives him a squeeze and friendly shake. “I hear that. Well. I’m not sure where your Company came into this, miss, but if they’re handling this, I’m certainly grateful. We weren’t prepared for what went on today, and any support you and yours will give is appreciated. I’ll speak with our Captain about sending some proper compensation your way once we get back to the monastery—”

The man cuts himself off as his expression drains of joy. The three students solemnly bow their heads. “Ah, that is… I don’t suppose you boys saw—”

“We did,” says Dimitri. “And we are deeply sorry for your loss. Knight Captain Twycross will be missed.”

“She was a good woman,” Alois agrees, his voice rough. “Can’t believe that’s how she went down but, mm, that is how it goes sometimes.”

“What was that you said, earlier, Byleth?” Dimitri raises his eyebrows as he tries to remember. “‘No battle is ever certain?’”

“All it takes is one wrong step to turn the tide,” Byleth says, shortening the original statement with a nod. She begins to say more, but realizes that Alois is once again staring at her. She meets his stare with her own, wondering what wrong thing she’s uttered this time. 

“ _Byleth_ , is it?” There’s something wrong in his voice. That same strange quality is back; the kind that makes her think of ghost stories. 

A little taken aback, she answers automatically, “Yes?”

“You wouldn’t happen to be—No,” he laughs at himself. There is, however, a wetness to his laugh that speaks of whirlwind emotions too strong and conflated for anyone to pull apart. “But, ah, just in case, your last name wouldn’t be _Eisner_ , would it?”

Byleth’s blood runs cold. He hasn’t threatened her—not precisely—but hadn’t she spent most of yesterday railing against her father’s dislike of the Church? Against his extraordinary avoidance of them and all their personnel; particularly the Knights? And now, here she was a day later, standing in front of Knight who clearly knows something about their family. Enough to put her name together from relatively little information.

Has she just betrayed him? Is this what he was so terrified of?

But he let her come out here knowing there might be Knights… 

The three students look between them with various stages of dawning comprehension written across their faces. Dimitri is the first to voice what they’re all thinking, “Your father is _Jeralt Eisner_ ? _The_ Jeralt Eisner?”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It explains quite a lot, actually,” says Claude. “I knew that was probably him we saw earlier—I mean, after you said they’re the Strikers and all. But I didn’t think he was your dad.”

Byleth’s frown deepens as she looks between the lot of them, and takes a cautious step backward. The warhound she’d almost forgotten stands up, and interposes itself between her and the group. “Why is that important?”

“It’s not,” says Jeralt. They’d been too busy talking to pay attention to the sounds coming from the trail… if there had been any to hear. Unlike the Knights, the Strikers who appear out of the forest are silent to a man. They’re all old faces, Byleth notices. He must have left the new recruits back with the caravan. 

Luca, standing to her father’s right, meets Byleth’s eyes and gives her a faint smile as his gaze rakes over her, assessing her for wounds. She uses the opportunity to point at the wounded dog. Luca nods, and turns to the swordsman nearest him, whispering something beneath his breath. The man runs off, presumably to find the houndmaster. 

“Jeralt!” Alois’ delight is second only to the brightness of his grin. He steps toward the man, arms wide as though he might go in for a hug. “Imagine this! I never thought we’d run into you again.”

“Hello, Alois,” Jeralt replies. He takes a half-step back, watching as the other man’s arms fall back to his sides. “It’s been a long time.”

“I’ll say. A good—what?” For some reason, Alois glances back at Byleth before adding, “Eighteen… Nineteen years?”

“Something like that.” 

“Well, we’re mighty glad you came along when you did. This whole thing has turned into a complete disaster.”

To her surprise, Jeralt seems to relax at that. He admits, “To be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t have seen this coming, either. When I got the word there was a group this close to the monastery I assumed it was either a false report or easy pickings.”

“That was our thought as well.” Alois chuckles. “You always did warn us about getting too relaxed on home territory.”

“Mm.” Jeralt nods, once, and finally looks Byleth and the students over. His frown deepens at all the blood, but the only thing he says is, “Is that the camp?”

“Yes,” says Byleth.

“How many?”

“About what you thought. We were surprised by the last few stragglers, but we survived.”

“So I see.” Jeralt’s attention centers past her, to the field, as the obvious sounds of armored people clang through the forestline. The other two Knights pause amidst the trees. Finally, he says to Alois, “We found a few more on our way out here. We kept one alive for questioning. If there’s more, the Strikers will find them. The rest of you should get back to the monastery before dark.”

“You’re a good man, Jeralt,” says Alois, with a slap to Jeralt’s shoulder. The big mercenary simply grunts. “Alright. You kids get ready. We’re going to head back to that big trail and take it back to the road. We—ah. I suppose we can come back for Patricia’s body, once we see that you three are safe.”

“That _was_ Patricia? I thought I recognized her.” Jeralt sighs. 

Alois nods sadly, “She’s been the Knight Captain ever since you retired. I—well. I’m not sure how we’re going to replace her.”

“Our driver, too,” says Dimitri, quietly. “Anton. His body is in the forest.”

“And the Professor,” says Claude. “It doesn’t seem right to leave any of them here.”

Edelgard says, “They knew the risks.”

Both the boys stare at her; Claude seemingly more surprised she said it aloud, and Dimitri more perturbed she thought it at all. Byleth, who technically agrees with the statement, if not the sentiment, finds herself frowning as well. It’s less about what _was_ said, as the _way_ in which it was said. Is that how she sounded to others?

“I’m not a fan of it myself,” says Alois, his eyes shining in the mid-morning light, “But we don’t have much choice. The other carriage was burned, and the horses are gone. If we at least had them I’d just as soon repurpose one of those carts from the camp, there.” 

He jerks his thumb back over his shoulder. “It looks like they have another exit out of here going a bit north and west. Actually, I figure it curves back around to another section of the road. Probably a bit closer to the Monastery, all considered.”

“Hm. Well, we can’t exactly stand to lose a horse—” Luca begins, stops, and then corrects himself, “—not that I think you wouldn’t _try_ to get it back to us if we loaned you one, but all our draft animals are currently occupied. Still, maybe if one of ours went with you—say, Bye, your mount might be alright in a harness for a bit, yeah?”

“It’s not trained,” she reminds him.

“No, but you can usually get the animals to go along with what you need.”

Jeralt spreads his hands wide to stop the conversation. “Hold on. I understand the impulse, but we can’t just—”

“Actually,” Alois interrupts with gusto. He claps Jeralt on the shoulder in the same way he had Claude earlier, not seeming to notice the sudden tension in Jeralt’s jaw. “Why don’t you come along with us, too, Jeralt? I was just saying to Byleth, before you showed up, that I’d find a way to get you all paid for your service here. Obviously Patricia can’t sign off on it, now, but if you come along with us I’m sure Lady Rhea would love to see you again. We can get the others a proper resting place, make sure your group isn’t out any necessary supplies, and get you paid all in one go.”

As Alois speaks, Jeralt and Luca watch each other. They’re silent, but Byleth, who knows them both better than she does herself, can read the entire conversation as easily as if they’d been shouting. 

It starts with a dark look from Jeralt, denoting anger that Luca brought up the possibility at all. 

Luca pleas for forgiveness with a wincing smile. 

It’s given with a sigh, and a grudging nod. 

At Alois’ initial offer, Luca places his hand on Jeralt’s arm and quickly jerks his head back toward the Company men; a reminder that the Charon job still doesn’t have a signed contract and their pay was never guaranteed. 

Jeralt huffs faintly, unconvinced. He can work it out. 

Luca crosses his arms. Is he _sure_? 

Jeralt leans back. Of course he’s sure. 

Luca shifts his weight onto one foot and tilts his head more fervently. Is he _really_ sure? It won’t be like that time in Varley? 

No, says the thinning of Jeralts lips, it won’t like that time in Varley.

Luca raises a single eyebrow.

Jeralt turns half away from him.

Luca leans into that turn, raising a second eyebrow.

A pregnant pause labors by while Alois finishes his spiel, then Jeralt sighs explosively. “Bye, get your damn horse.”

“Fantastic!” says Alois with a sharp clap of his hands, apparently convinced of his persuasive conversational skills.

### #

In the end, they harness both Byleth and Jeralt’s mounts each to one of the bandit’s carts. Neither horse is happy about the situation, but Byleth plies them with lumps of sugar and a few decently ripe apples taken from the bandit’s stolen cargo. 

Much of what had been in the carts is fairly mundane or otherwise useless. The Strikers take what they can either use or sell—claiming it beneath “Salvager’s Law”—and leave the rest with the ruined tents in the encampment. 

Now that the bodies have been recovered, they’ll be laid in the back of Jeralt’s cart, and the students, who had the worst injuries, will ride the back of Byleth’s. The knights elect to walk, and keep an eye on their surroundings. 

Along with these traveling plans, it’s decided that the Strikers, under Luca’s command, will stay behind in the forest. They’ll comb the area through the night, set up camp, and make certain the problem is completely handled. 

“If we’re not back within a day,” Jeralt begins to say to Luca as they watch the Knights load the bodies from across the encampment.

“Then _we_ come to the monastery,” finishes Luca.

“No. You continue into Charon. We’ll find you.”

“Jer—”

“No, Luc.” Jeralt’s jaw sets as they stare one another down; both equally worried, and resigned. 

“If you think this is so dangerous, why are we going?” Byleth asks quietly.

Both the men startle, having forgotten she was present. Jeralt rubs the back of his neck as Luca offers her a thin smile and says, “It’s not dangerous.”

“But you said Dad had good reasons for…” It probably wasn’t a good idea to bring up Jeralt’s issues with the Church when representatives are so close by, no matter how far out of earshot they seem. Byleth fidgets and finishes lamely, “Everything.”

“I did, and he does,” Luca replies, glancing again at Jeralt with a question Byleth can’t interpret. “But that has nothing to do with this. You’re just going to talk to them about payment for a job we helped on, so we can keep this Company going through the year. That’s it. It doesn’t have to be dramatic.”

Jeralt mutters, “You don’t know her like I do.”

“And you haven’t known her for nearly twenty years.” Voice turning gentle, Luca adds more quietly, “Time changes things. Do _I_ really need to remind you of that?”

Huffing a soft, brief laugh, Jeralt shakes his head. All he says is, “Truer than you know.”

Luca hums at that. “I could always go in your stead. Maybe ‘she’ won’t like it, but we did do the job—”

“Did you miss the part where I’m trying to keep you out of her sight?”

“No. But if there’s anyone who needs to be kept out of her sight, it isn’t me,” Luca replies. “But we’re past arguing on that point.”

“We are,” agrees Jeralt. He takes a deep breath. “Fine. Wait for us in the Goddess’ Eye, if it comes to that. Their old fair grounds should probably be open for use this time of year. Do not, under any circumstances, go up to the Keep. Deal?”

Luca nods, and Byleth, sensing another awkward personal moment, walks toward the carts as they finish their goodbyes. 

The Knights are covering the bodies with repurposed oil cloth from one of the bandit tents. As she approaches, Alois looks up and behind her. He makes a soft sound and offers Byleth a smile. “You know, when I heard he’d gone mercenary I was worried about him. Not that there’s anything wrong with mercenary work, but they always seemed a rougher lot. I didn’t think it would suit him. But it seems this was good for him. I’m glad to see he’s made a life for himself. Moved on.”

Byleth, unsure what to say to any of that, says nothing at all. Alois doesn’t seem to mind. He continues to ramble on about his observations concerning the Strikers while they finish securing the corpses, somehow managing to be both very generous and deeply, if naively, ignorant at the same time. 

### #

The ride to Garreg Mach is bumpy and uncomfortable for everyone involved, especially the horses. Unused to being harnessed or having to pull things, both shy at odd intervals and have to be coaxed to continue every few candlemarks To help, the passengers of Byleth’s cart occasionally get out to walk; except for Dimitri who, after being seen by the Company’s primary medic, is forbidden from strenuous activities until he can be seen by a real healer. She bandaged his wound as best she could, but according to the old woman he was lucky not to have bled out. 

Towards mid-afternoon they finally find the other end of the monastery road. From there, though much of their journey lies uphill as the mountains rise around them, the going is far easier and the horses are far happier. 

“Let me get this straight,” Claude is saying as he walks alongside the driver’s seat of Byleth’s cart, “You’ve been all over Fodlan, but never here?”

“Not much work,” Byleth replies with a shrug. 

“I suppose that’s fair.”

From the back, Dimitri asks, “I thought you had never been to Garreg Mach before, either, Claude? Not before this past month.”

“Sure, but I’m just some sheltered noble brat. Not a badass mercenary. I’d never been very far from home at all before all this.”

“And a wonder that is,” Edelgard puts in. She casts Claude a side-eyed look from her place beside him. “I am curious where your grandfather has been hiding you all this time.”

Claude grins, tucking his hands behind his neck as he lifts his gaze skyward. “Oh, the same place most people hide their bastard relatives until they need them: obscurity.” 

Behind Byleth, Dimitri scoffs very quietly. The other two don’t seem to notice, as Edelgard returns her attention forward. “My apologies for bringing up such a subject.”

“Heh, don’t fuss over me, Princess. I’m getting pretty used to it.” 

There it is again; “Princess.” It could be part of what Byleth has identified as “Claude’s act;” his insistence on playing the fool, constantly making fun of the situation and the people around him. To what end he does this, she doesn’t have the faintest idea but she has fewer and fewer doubts that she’s right about what he’s doing, and no doubts at all that these three are noble born. Which means their being royalty is less a matter of “if” and more a matter of “how close to the throne are they?”

It shouldn’t matter; not really. Not only will Byleth be free of them soon, and unlikely to ever run into them again, but she’s been around nobility before. She has worked for them most of her life. They’re usually a little more distant, sure. Usually older than her, too. Inclined to use lesser-born go betweens, like Myrrdin’s marshall, rather than talk to the dirty mercs themselves. And altogether just less likely to treat her like a person than they are to treat her like an expensive tool. Something that’s convenient when it’s doing what you want, and less convenient when it comes time to settle the bill. 

It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. But it does bother her, this idea that she’s spent most of a day hanging around them, treating them like equals and ordering them around. The longer it goes on, the more it bothers her. In her heart of hearts, she expects there to be a reprisal coming once the shock has faded and they all realize how familiar a commoner--no, worse, a common _mercenary_ \--has been with them all this time. 

Trepidation reinforces the lock on her jaw; shoring up her defenses as the nobles converse between themselves, only requiring the occasional one-or-two-word comment from her to keep going. 

Along the way she learns that Dimitri and Edelgard have a long standing… _something…_ between them. It isn’t quite a rivalry, but neither is it friendship. They are familiar, though, and clearly of two very different minds on just about every subject. While Edelgard seems happy to share her opinion of the world with anyone who will listen, Dimitri seems to prefer keeping the peace when at all possible. She learns less about what he stands for than what he’s willing to shut down. 

Claude absorbs this all with a mischievous grin and sharp, intelligent eyes. In this regard, Byleth thinks she may have found a kindred spirit. She would happily wager he says less than ten percent of what he’s _really_ thinking. Unlike her, he makes sure that that ten percent is generally carefree and designed for others’ humor. He’s intriguing. He’s also very clearly dangerous.

After another candlemark on the road, the trees overhead begin to thin. Edelgard and Claude hop back inside the cart as they clear the canopy, and the great rolling vista of Garreg Mach stretches out before them. 

Byleth’s grip on her horse’s reins loosens as the breath leaves her body.

Garreg Mach Monastery sits just below the clouds, nestled across twin mountain peaks separated by a bridge arching over the steep, wooded divide. Even from this distance, several candlemarks yet away from arrival, she can appreciate the grandiose scale of the buildings. Their tiered walls gleam like polished ivory in the spring sunlight, and the sweeping architecture of the grand cathedral, jutting from its forested base as though grown from the mountain itself, winds its way delicately to the steepled tip of a massive belltower rising from one end. She catches glinting glimpses of the bells inside as they unleash a merry, multilayered tune upon the afternoon air.

But Garreg Mach is so much more than just a monastery. The swell of its complex structure spills down the side of the mountain, rolling into and across the hillside before them. Verdant fields stretch out past the great walls of the city, rendering the south-and-west mountainside into a living quilt of tilled earth and freshly sprouted stalks. Though the occasional farmhouse punctuates the landscape, it’s clear from the traffic on the smaller roads leading into town that most of the population resides within the city itself.

Though the portions of the city directly before them are tucked out of sight behind the walls, she can already see too many structures. Enough that she can’t count them all as they drift down the mountain in layered tiers of homes, businesses, and yet more large, parapeted and towered walls to bisect the districts.

The largest, most ostentatious buildings--all made of stone and shingle--sit along the topmost tiers, with the exception of the odd cathedral peppered in even amongst the thatched buildings of the lowest sections. Those are easy to spot as they’re built to match the grand cathedral high above; complete with their own, smaller bell towers that chime in with the music. She counts five before giving it up.

The further down the buildings go, the more common are houses of plaster, wood, and lumbered roofs until, finally, the only rooftops she can see above the great curtain wall are thatch. As they approach the massive, open gate with it’s ominously spiked portcullis the road beneath them transitions smoothly from packed dirt to cobblestone. 

One of Dimitri’s arms hooks over the back of the driver’s bench. He leans in, nodding his head to the town. “Quite a sight, is it not?”

“I thought it would be…” She hesitates, unsure if her thoughts are improper. 

“Smaller?” He smiles slightly, though his tone betrays no judgement. That’s something, at least, and Byleth finds herself nodding. “I can understand why. Most monasteries are just full of monks, from my experience. Had my parents not taken me on pilgrimage a few times when I was young, I would have been surprised myself. My father used to say that Garreg Mach was less a monastery, and more the capital of the smallest country in Fodlan. Or the largest, depending on how you look at things.”

“He was not wrong, I think,” chimes in Edelgard.

Some of the newfound softness to Dimitri’s face leeches away as his smile fades. “Perhaps not,” he says, and gestures loosely to the shops lining the street as their small procession passes the guards’ station with naught but a nod from Alois. The Knight waves a younger teen in uniform over, to walk with him for a few seconds before the boy runs off. “The township is known as ‘In the Goddess’ Eye,’ or just ‘Goddess’ Eye’ for short.” 

“Or just ‘the township,’ if you don’t wanna be pretentious about it,” says Claude.

Dimitri cracks the faintest smile at that.

“Are they all students?” Byleth finds herself asking as the cart pulls past the initial shops and into a wide market square. The center is packed with stalls and people pursuing their wares, with cart traffic kept to the outer edges. Not all of the people milling around are wearing black-and-gold uniforms reminiscent of the three nobles, but many are. Byleth notes that none of these are wearing capes. 

Their group skirts around, toward a large boulevard which snakes a path up through the tiers toward the monastery itself.

“The Academy classes are starting up next week,” says Edelgard, after calling a quick hello to someone who yells ‘Edel!’ from the crowd. “There is a curfew, technically, but the monastery’s policies concerning excursions to the township are alarmingly relaxed.”

“You disapprove,” asks Dimitri, surprised. 

“Hardly. More… I had expected them to keep a firmer grip on their students, is all. For safety’s sake, if nothing else.”

“I doubt that would sit well with a lot of them,” Claude puts in with a laugh. 

Again, Byleth finds herself unable to stop from asking a question. “Why is that?”

“Most of the kids are nobility. Not used to being told ‘no.’” 

Dimitri leans back into the cart, but not before Byleth notices his frown. “Perhaps that is how things are done in the Alliance or Empire, but I think you will find it is quite another story in Faerghus.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Claude argues. “Until then, nobles are nobles, my friend. That’s not necessarily a _bad_ thing. Just how things are.”

Edelgard bypasses the argument by asking, “So you think our freedom is merely a concession, then? We will undoubtedly break the rules, so they may as well not set any?”

“Not exactly. I just think the Church has been dealing with our ilk long enough that they know what battles to pick, and when to let things be. It’s not like any of us are going to find too much trouble in a church town, anyway, so what’s the point of being hardasses about it? They let us have the run of the town, and the town gets to keep our pocket money alongside the Church getting our parents’ oh-so-generous ‘donations’ in exchange for our education. _And_ they don’t have to listen to us complain about being cut off from society, or culture, or whatever. Could you imagine if Lorenz couldn’t get to his tea shops for a year? Or Hubert?”

Edelgard laughs quietly. “I doubt Hubert would thank you for that comparison.”

“But you haven’t denied my point.”

“No, I have not,” she says. Dimitri chuckles faintly as Edelgard falls silent and Claude lets out a theatrical groan. 

The rest of the trip goes more quickly than Byleth would have imagined. There’s still a trace of pink light on the horizon as they leave their carts under guard in the stables just off the monastery’s main gates. 

Dimitri is still wincing when he climbs out of the cart, and Claude puts a hand out to steady him. “Look, let me help you up to Manuela.” 

“I am fine, Claude. Besides, we must report—”

“Do not be boorish, Dimitri,” snaps Edelgard. “I will handle the report for the three of us. You have gone long enough without proper medical attention.”

“I could say the same about you,” Claude says, tapping his cheek for emphasis. 

“You should all three go to the infirmary,” Jeralt orders. “If you need someone to report, I or Alois can handle that for you. I’m sure Rhea will understand.”

From the way Edelgard frowns, it looks like the girl is about to argue with him. Byleth doesn’t blame her; Jeralt isn’t only speaking as though he has authority here, but with a level of familiarity that is somewhat disturbing to her. He’s usually better at propriety than she is.

Despite this, Alois steps up beside him and nods. “Jeralt is right. You three see Manuela, then get yourselves some food and rest. You all deserve it. I’ll send a runner if we need any of you to come in person.”

“Sounds good by me,” says Claude, throwing an arm around Dimitri. “Come on, your stubborn Highness. Edelgard, could I get a hand? He is way heavier than he looks.”

“I am not even leaning on you,” grumbles Dimitri, even as he hooks an arm around Claude’s shoulder for support. 

Edelgard sighs, performs that same slight, sketchy bow to Alois and Jeralt, then makes to follow the other two. Before she disappears, however, she hesitates. Again, that strange intensity seems to radiate off her as she meets Byleth’s gaze and says, “It was good to meet you, Byleth.”

Byleth nods, fidgeting against the urge to take a step away from the girl. Edeglard holds a second longer, then follows the boys into the complex.

Jeralt casts Byleth a questioning look, and she shrugs a single shoulder, looking resolutely at the cobbled ground. 

“I sent a runner ahead when we passed into town,” Alois says into the silence. “We should head straight up, but if you’d like a minute—”

“No. Better to get this over with.”

“As you say,” Alois replies with the air of a man who hasn’t read his companion’s mood correctly at all. He smile dims just a trifle as he glances back to Jeralt’s cart and its grizzly cargo. “We have a few funerals to arrange, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having so much fun writing Alois, y'all don't even understand. And Cyril! In the next Chapter!!!! 
> 
> (But seriously, I feel like this "day" has lasted forever. It's almost to the big Rhea meeting though~~)


	5. Windows to the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jeralt faces down his fears, everyone shares a very awkward dinner, Rhea makes a proposition, and Byleth gets a lot of answers that prompt a lot more questions

**Day 15 Great Tree Moon, Year 1180**

The monastery is even larger within than it seemed without. Byleth has always been a small slip of a girl, but passing beneath the grand and imposing double doors into the reception hall makes her feel smaller than an ant beneath the sun. 

Their bootsteps echo off the marbled floors and vaulted ceiling, drawing attention from a few loitering nobles, clergy, and students who linger within. The feeling of being watched ripples across Byleth’s skin; more powerful than it usually is. Discomforted, she fights the urge to fidget, and keeps her head down and mouth shut.

The hall ends in a second pair of doors, followed by a hedge-lined path into a smaller but no-less imposing building that Aolis dubs “the abbey.” Just before they enter, a young Almyran boy comes running up an adjoining path and stops next to Alois. 

“Hey! Hey, Alois! Wait up!”

“Cyril, my boy! What can I do for you?”

“Lady Rhea said to tell you that her visitors can come up to the Moon Terrace. She said they know the way,” says the boy, his burnt orange eyes flicking over Jeralt and Byleth. He wrinkles his nose. “I’m not sure she knows how dirty they are, though. Maybe I should double check.” 

“I doubt that will be necessary,” says Alois, raising his hand to hold Cyril off. To Jeralt, he adds, “Well, I suppose we should have expected that. You do still remember the way, I’m sure?”

“Oh, I do,” says Jeralt. He tilts his head up. For a moment, Byleth thinks he’s looking at the stars beginning to twinkle above. Then she realizes that his gaze is rooted to the central tower jutting from the roof of the Abbey. “What about your report?”

“Ah, that I should probably give to Seteth, come to think of it.”

“Seteth?”

“Mm,” Alois nods, before he abruptly registers the confusion in jeralt’s voice. “Ah! You don’t know Seteth, do you? No. He came to us after your time. He’s the new Archdeacon. Well, not ‘new’ new. He was installed, ah, a few years ago, now, I think? You know it took them a while to replace Hes—”

“I get it, thanks.” 

Alois clears his throat, nodding. “Of course. Sorry about that.” 

“It’s fine,” Jeralt says. They stand there another moment, and Byleth is both amused and concerned that in the dimming light her father looks mildly embarrassed. Then he claps a hand on Alois’ shoulder. “It was good to see you. I’m sorry we won’t be able to stay longer.”

Immediately, Alois beams again. “Don’t worry about it. You seem like you have a lot going on. Maybe next time you pass through we can get drinks.”

“Sure. I’d… I’d like that.”

“Can I go?” asks Cyril, startling both men. 

“Sorry, Cyril!” says Alois. “Actually, do you have a minute? I could use your help…”

“Lady Rhea wanted me to…”

As they talk, Jeralt releases Alois’ shoulder and gestures for Byleth to follow him. He opens the door to the Abbey, and they walk in to find another long, vault-ceilinged room. This one comes with far too many tables for anything other than a dining hall. 

It isn’t a dining hall.

Instead of hovering over food and drink, most of the people sitting in this space seem to be talking quietly, playing table games, or are settled next to stacks of books and parchment. As the mercenaries progress down the long central corridor, the talking slowly dies around them. The hair on the back Byleth’s neck rises as, once again, she feels the weight of eyes upon her. It’s even stronger this time, with far more people loitering about. This sort of attention would be uncomfortable at the best of times, but this feeling exceeds mere discomfort. 

No, much to her horror, there’s that same, uncanny sense of presence she’d felt from the three nobles radiating through the room. It isn’t  _ all  _ of the gathered who give her this feeling, but the sheer number and density make it impossible to decide who is a problem and who isn’t. Shuddering, Byleth hurries along the hall, moving past Jeralt just as they exit onto a small antechamber.

Her father had been right all along. They never should have come here.

“Hey, where’s the fire,” Jeralt asks, catching her arm to stop her from pulling the next pair of doors open.

“What fire?”

“You know what I mean,” he says, flatly. His voice lowers further as he leans into add, “I need you to focus, okay? We’ll be out of here soon.”

Byleth nods. It’s all she can do. Explaining seems like a bad idea, here and now. That can wait for their long ride back to camp.

Jeralt tugs her gently toward a stairwell, rather than the doors ahead of them, and leads their procession upward.

She sees just enough of the second floor to note a formal audience hall that’s mostly empty and dark but for a dizzying array of coloured patches thrown by the setting sun streaming through a rose window at the far end. After that, it’s another set of stairs with a guard stationed to one side. 

The Knight puts her lance across the stairwell entry. “Hold on, a moment. Who—”

“Lady Rhea is expecting us,” says Jeralt. 

“Wait—” the woman lifts the visor of her barbuta helmet, revealing a well-lined face and curl of silver fringe sweat-plastered to her forehead, “—Jeralt?”

“Hi, Emel.”

“Look what the cat drug in,” the woman scoffs. She retracts her arm. “Never thought you’d show up again. Go on up, then. Can’t make the Lady wait.”

He nods to her, and does so without another word. Emel’s gaze doesn’t have the weight of the others’, but Byleth still feels the woman watching as they disappear upstairs.

All of this seems strange and wrong to Byleth, and not only due to the number of people who make her skin crawl and her pulse flutter. She isn’t used to fancy people like this trusting mercenaries—especially ones covered in road filth and old blood—to wander about their homes without any kind of escort. And so many of them recognize her father… 

The stairs continue up through a fourth and fifth story, which appear to be residential quarters, and then onward into a dimly lit, spiraling tower. Finally, they step through a doorway and into a short hall. 

Jeralt pauses to let them get their breath back after the long climb. Quietly, he says, “You’re going to have a lot of questions about all this. I get that. But I need you to hold them, okay? I’ll explain what I can when we’re out of here. For now, be quiet, observe, and only speak if you absolutely have to. Got it?”

Under most other circumstances, Byleth would have found that sort of order annoying or even condescending. After the day she’s had, she’s only surprised he felt the need to give it. She doesn’t want to say anything to anyone here, not even an Archbishop. She doesn’t want to stay in this place any longer than necessary. 

Byleth schools her face into a mask of careful neutrality, and nods.

###  #

The terrace floor is grey slab inlaid with a large silver-lined circle, surrounded by a nested skirt of triangles stylized to represent the rays of the sun. Inside the circle is a matching moon-face, just recognizable beneath an unoccupied table and chair set placed at its center. Along the edges of the terrace are a wide variety of plants in decorative pots, none of which seem like they ought to be able to survive the winds that must surely buffet any place so tall.

The winds… which currently don’t seem to exist. Although Byleth can hear the sound of wind rushing nearby, only the lightest of breezes stirs the air on the terrace itself as the pair step outside. It tugs playfully at the long, pale green hair of the woman across the terrace, standing with her back to them. Her graceful, pale fingers caress the thick stone railing.

Byleth’s throat constricts. She’s met people with green hair before—who hasn’t?—but their green is always darker, nearer to Byleth’s own dusky teal than anything like this. This shade, though far less saturated, reminds Byleth of the girl upon the throne, and all the strangeness of her morning. 

Rhea’s voice is gentle and saccharine sweet as she says without looking, “So you’ve finally come home to us.”

“This isn’t my home, Rhea,” Jeralt informs her. He runs a hand over one shaved side of his head, cupping his fingers along the back of his neck. “And I didn’t come to stay.”

“But it is. Whether or not you choose to claim it, Garreg Mach has always been, and will always be, your home.”

The Archbishop turns. Her eyes are just as pale as her hair, and in the rising moonlight they seem to glow as she observes Jeralt, and then his daughter in turn. 

Whether it’s the colour of those eyes—the exact same as Byleth’s mysterious passenger—or the overwhelming weight of the Archbishop’s gaze, Byleth has to fight the urge to flee from this strange woman. The only thing that stops her is the precise feeling that passes between them. Unlike Edelgard’s intensity, or Claude’s sharpness, or Dimitri’s turmoil, this woman just seems… sad. Terribly, viciously sad.

Rhea smiles. She takes a step toward Byleth. “Are you Byleth? We thought—Jeralt, given the circumstances under which you left us, we thought she had—but she  _ must  _ be. She looks so very much like her mother.”

Byleth doesn’t want to speak, but the same intensity begging her to flee pulls the question from her lips. “You knew my mom?” 

“Bye,” Jeralt whispers sharply. 

“Your mother was once the Archdeacon here. Hasn’t your father told you?” Rhea’s moonglow gaze shifts back to Jeralt, alleviating some of that pressure from Byleth’s shoulders. “Her death was a tragedy I am not certain we ever fully recovered from.”

“We didn’t come for a history lesson.”

Rhea’s smile vanishes. Her voice remains light, but there is a sharp point hidden beneath the sweetness as she says, “You did not come to stay, nor to speak of family. So, then, why did you return? To seek a boon? A blessing, perhaps?”

Tensing, even as he says it, Jeralt spits a single word: “Business.”

Whatever he’s expecting, it doesn’t seem to happen. Rhea stares at Jeralt, and he stares back, until Rhea asks lightly, “What sort of business? The last I heard, you had returned to the mercenary life. You know better than most that the Church has little use for sellswords.”

“We ran into some of your kids while on our way into Charon to negotiate over those bandits in the forest. It was a pretty large group; decently established and bold enough to pick a Church carriage off the road. Large enough it shouldn’t have been left to students and a tiny escort.”

“I see.” Her brow furrows. If she notices the implicit reprimand, she doesn’t seem to care. “The runner did not mention… Was anyone wounded?”

“A few, but we got the kids out safely enough.”

“And now you are coming to us seeking a reward, as you are unlikely to negotiate fair compensation from Lord Charon now that the job is already complete. Is that the sum of it?”

Jeralt nods. Rhea’s mouth settles into a gentle line which speaks more of grief than anger. “I must admit, I am somewhat disappointed. After all these years, I thought it would take something far grander in scale for us to see you again. Or, perhaps, a change of heart.”

“Missing pay is a decent motivator by merc standards.”

“I suppose it is.” Her gaze strays to Byleth again a moment, before she approaches the table and sits at the single chair on her side. She gestures to the chairs opposite hers. “Please.”

“Rhea—”

“Jeralt.” The Archbishop’s tone takes the faintest of sharp turns. Though she’s looking up at the man, it’s clear who is in charge here. “I will not pretend there is no rough history between us, no matter how adamantly I may wish it were not so.

“But let us also not pretend that this history is one sided. You came for payment, and you will receive it. In due course. For now, please, let us behave like the friends we once were. Sit with me. Stay for dinner, and a drink, and if you still choose to leave, no one here will stop you.”

Unspoken is the notion that if they refuse someone may indeed try to stop them. Under normal circumstances this isn’t the sort of threat Jeralt responds well toward. Under normal circumstances, they would not be in the middle of someone else’s keep, half a day’s ride from potential backup. Though they are each well trained and formidable in their own rights, Byleth cannot pretend to like the odds of their clean escape.

Her father’s thoughts must run along the same lines; he sits, and gestures for Byleth to do the same. 

“Thank you,” says Rhea, so earnestly it’s as though her threat never happened at all. “Cyril should have the dining hall sending our dinner up any time now. Until then, would you do me the honor of telling me about your travels? What have you been doing during your absence?”

To Byleth’s complete surprise, Jeralt does. His story is heavily edited and much truncated. Despite that, it is also filled with things that Byleth had never known herself. 

Jeralt glosses over his apparent decision to leave the monastery with her in tow, citing an inability to remain any longer in the place where his wife died. He tells Rhea about their joining up with a mercenary company a year later—a lie, Byleth thinks—and eventually taking over from the old captain when the man got himself murdered over a tavern wench and a beer tab. 

“They elected you right into the position, I am sure,” says Rhea, sounding incredibly pleased by the notion.

“Not hardly. The Company was split between me and this bastard, Deirdricht. I didn’t see the appeal, personally, but I would have left it to him if they’d pressed. I’d had my fill of that nonsense with Leroy. Enough of them realized what he was before it came to that, though, and we drove him out.”

“He was another drunken lout, I take it?”

“He was a  _ snake _ ,” corrects Jeralt, some of the easy manner slipping from his tone as Rhea goes alarmingly still. 

“I see.”

The terrace door opens behind them. Rhea’s gaze diverts, and her posture immediately softens as she smiles at the intruder.

“Sorry that took so long, Lady Rhea!” Cyril appears pushing a serving cart laden with several covered plates, empty glasses, and a capped pitcher. He stops it next to the table and jumps to grab the plate nearest to the Archbishop before she can take it herself. “Let me get that for you.”

“Cyril, you do not have to do so much,” she says, not moving to stop him as he sets their plates out before them. “I only meant you to inform them.”

“But I wanted to! I didn’t want them to forget about you. Besides, you shouldn’t have to work so hard, either.”

“I do not think you, of all of us, should be giving lectures on not working so hard,” Rhea teases in a way that draws a thin, shy smile from Cyril’s lips. Then she tips her head at the fourth plate set on the table, “Are you joining us, dear?”

Cyril’s eyes widen. “No! I wouldn’t invite myself like that. This is for Seteth. When he saw what I was doing, he asked me to add it on. He’s the Archdeacon, so I figured that was okay for  _ him _ to invite himself. It’s okay, right?”

“Of course it is. You did a wonderful job. You should go take care of yourself, now, though. We have it from here.”

The boy’s smile is radiant, and his eyes glitter merrily in the rising moonlight. “Yes, Lady Rhea! Thank you!”

He darts off, then, leaving them with their cart and dinner. Jeralt waits until the terrace doors are closed, and the tension in Rhea’s shoulders has dwindled before asking, “Still rescuing puppies, are you?”

“Cyril is not a  _ dog _ , Jeralt.”

“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.” Jeralt takes the cover off his plate, revealing a sizzling cut of well-cooked beef, potatoes glistening with butter and flecked with herbs, a whole pile of vegetables in some sort of red-and-yellow sauce, and a slab of thick, golden bread. He nudges Byleth with his elbow as he picks up a fork to eat. “He’s dedicated.”

“There was a time when you were so dedicated to this monastery.”

“To you, you mean.”

“That, too,” Rhea agrees. She uncovers her own plate, and begins to delicately cut her steak into bite-sized pieces. 

Byleth slowly follows suit. It smells delicious, this food, but the uneasy company and conversation has her stomach all in knots. She eyes her father, who has already taken several bites and seems none the worse for it, before tucking into her own plate. 

For a little while the conversation reverts to the Company as they enjoy their meal. Jeralt even, much to Byleth’s surprise, informs the Archbishop of their troubles on the Almyran border that past year. 

“We lost a good fifteen people to those damnable swamps,” he says with a sigh. “And seven more to sickness and cold over the winter. We managed to replace them during spring recruitment, but only by taking on more than a few people I’m not entirely comfortable with.”

“Too hot-blooded?”

Jeralt nods. “Been seeing a lot more of that recently. Especially among the castoffs.” 

“Mm. I have noticed something similar, here. Things have been…” Rhea pauses, and glances up as the door behind them opens once again. “Seteth.”

“Good evening,” says the new man. He skirts the table to take the last place, moving his chair closer to Rhea’s before settling down. Byleth feels his gaze moving across her; subtle and sharp, like Claude’s, but far more…  _ paranoid _ . Strange how she knows that just from the feeling between them. Still, she’s almost grateful for it; compared to the others, this man’s attention is easy to bear. 

Heartened, she looks up to find cold green eyes boring into her own. Like the Archbishop’s, they seem lambent by the moonlight. His hair and beard, however, are rendered a dark, subtle colour that reminds her of an evergreen forest. After a painfully long moment, he turns to Jeralt. 

“You must be the old Knight Captain I have heard so much about. It is good to finally meet you in person.”

Jeralt nods to him. In a stiffly ironic monotone he drawls, “My pleasure.”

“I am sure.” The precision straight line of Seteth’s back does not bend an inch as he plucks his utensils from the table and sets about his meal. “Lady Rhea. You have been briefed on what happened this afternoon, yes?”

“I hardly think this is the time.”

“On the contrary, I believe it is the perfect time,” says the Archdeacon without the slightest hint of embarrassment or remorse for publicly disagreeing with his superior. “Patricia’s death—may the Goddess bless her, and guide her into the warriors halls—puts us in a terrible position, among other issues.”

Rhea’s fork hits her plate with a loud ‘ding.’ “Captain Twycross? Jeralt, I thought you said they were only wounded.”

Jeralt sets his own utensils down. “I said the  _ kids  _ were only wounded. I assumed you were told about Patricia and the others.”

“ _ Others _ ?”

“Charles and Anton,” supplies Seteth. “Alois is seeing to the funeral arrangements.”

Looking briefly stunned, the woman sinks back into her chair. “I knew that it must have been worse than we imagined if your Company needed to get involved, but both Charles  _ and  _ Patricia…”

“I am sorry for their loss,” says Jeralt. “From what we could tell, they were already gone by the time we arrived.”

“But the children are alright?” she repeats, as though not quite believing it.

“They are as fine as can be expected,” says Seteth. “Though I suspect that is in no small part due to their various pasts.”

“Thank the Goddess.” Rhea worries two fingers across her lips, nodding absently to his cryptic words. “This is most unusual. To have such a strong force near the monastery…”

“I agree, it is quite troublesome,” says Seteth. He rests both elbows on the table, his piercing gaze flicking between the two mercenaries before settling upon Jeralt. “I have heard a great deal about you over the years, and Alois seemed very taken with your Company. He mentioned you just completed a contract. Am I to assume you are free for the moment?”

“You might. What exactly are you getting at,” Jeralt asks slowly, leaning back in his own chair. 

Rather than be offended by such bluntness, Seteth inclines his head appreciatively. “With Patricia gone, we will need several days both to consider her replacement and shuffle our people around. That is on top of our need to find a new professor for the Academy on incredibly short notice.”

“Right…”

“I will be frank. I do not entirely trust you. Given the circumstances under which you left our monastery, I would much prefer if you were on your way as quickly as possible.” 

“Seteth,” Rhea interjects without much heat. 

The Archdeacon is not interested in listening. He continues, “However, you are  _ here _ . I believe that I, and others, would sleep more easily at night should we have a well trained, sizable force inspecting our borders for any other such… anomalies. I would propose, Lady Rhea, that we enlist these ‘Strikers’ in such a capacity until our dead are buried and the Knight Captain’s replacement has settled into their position.”

“This is not a terrible suggestion,” muses Rhea. 

“You have a lot of Knights,” argues Jeralt, “Surely you would feel  _ more _ comfortable having someone you trust watching the borders.”

Seteth gestured vaguely in the direction of a building off to their left which Byleth suspects is a garrison. “As you might remember from your time as Knight Captain, the Monastery keeps only a small guard on hand to secure the Keep and the town itself. Most of the Knights are serving elsewhere throughout Fodlan. We could recall them, but doing so would take time. I would rather this matter were settled quickly, before anyone else can come to harm.”

Jeralt’s jaw works silently. He rubs at his chin, then says, slowly, “We were actually on our way to the coast.” 

Seteth raises an eyebrow. “So then, you are  _ not  _ free?” 

Byleth cuts her father an appraising look as Jeralt descends into thoughtful silence. Much as she would like to leave this place far, far behind her, she knows perfectly well what Luca would be saying in her place. If the Church is offering a contract—on top of being willing to pay them for work already committed on their behalf—it would be a decent bolster against the possibility of their not being any work at all when they arrive up north. 

Her father catches her gaze. His frown deepens as he looks pointedly away. “I—”

“Perhaps an evening to think this over,” Rhea interjects suddenly. “You both have had a very long day, from the sound of this, and we are all a little high strung, I think. Though I do agree that Seteth’s idea is an excellent one, I would not want you to feel forced into accepting a contract with us.”

Jeralt leans forward, elbows to the table and fingers clasped beneath his chin. Ignoring Seteth, he focuses entirely upon Rhea as he asks, “Is that pay we discussed for the bandits contingent on our agreeing to this?”

“No,” she says firmly. “In fact, you and I can go to my study as soon as we have finished our dinner, and sort those details out. Afterward… It is rather late, and as I understand it, the area where your Company is camped is a very long ride from here. You and Byleth are welcome to stay for the night, as my guests. You could rest; recuperate. And then we could discuss further employment opportunities tomorrow morning, before you return to your Company.”

Inwardly, Byleth wilts at the idea of staying a night in this place with it’s strange people and dangerous atmosphere. But to her horror, Jeralt seems to be considering it.

“Dad…”

He won’t look at her. 

“That sounds reasonable,” Jeralt says, and Rhea beams.

“Wonderful!”

###  #

Byleth waits on the terrace as her father and the Archbishop adjourn to her study down the hall. The Archdeacon stays with her, picking at his cold meal and letting the silence engulf them. 

Just as she’s beginning to feel somewhat safe in his presence, he says, “So, you are Byleth, then? Hestia’s daughter?”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“I was never told her name.” 

“I see.”

In the silence that follows, Byleth fidgets beneath the man’s bald stare. Though his attention is easier to bear than most of the others she’s met today, that doesn’t make it easy in the moment. Nor does he doesn’t seem to care that staring is considered rude by most people; he offers no apologies. It’s almost as though he’s testing her. 

Under normal circumstances, Byleth would meet the challenge head on. Given the weight of his watching, however…

Actually, why  _ is  _ that stopping her? The thought is sudden, but intriguing. Why not challenge him? Why  _ not  _ test herself?

Her father instructed her not to ask questions. He said nothing of tempting weird, paranormal feelings.

She inhales slowly and deeply, and lifts her chin by degrees until she’s meeting his gaze headon. Seteth’s eyes widen slightly, before narrowing. The weight of that stare, which had been subtle to begin with, actually begins to dissipate the longer their gazes hold. The energy evens around her, like ripples slowly settling out of a pond until the water is still enough to reflect the world around it, until it’s easier to breathe; easier for her to think.

And the easier it is for her to think, the more certain Byleth is that this man is not being intentionally aggressive. Rather, he seems more curious and wary than anything else. Another kindred spirit, in that regard. 

Finally, his voice distant and soft, he says, “Yes, you are hers.”

She isn’t supposed to ask, but she does. “How are you so sure?”

“Your eyes.” The words shiver across her skin. “You look like her, certainly, but that could be a coincidence, albeit an improbable one. Your eyes, however…”

“Blue eyes aren’t so rare as that.”

“That is not what I mean. I believe you know that, do you not?”

“I…”

Though she thinks she’s kept her neutral mask up quite well, Seteth settles back in his seat, crosses his arms, and says with remarkable insight, “No. Perhaps you do not. Tell me, Byleth, have you ever  _ felt _ a particular way about someone you have just met? Before this, I mean. Felt as though you know something of them without reason or understanding why?”

Byleth glances over her shoulder to assure herself that Jeralt has not returned without her notice, then gives Seteth one hesitant nod. 

“It is not unheard of, this feeling,” he assures her. “Though it is somewhat rare. Some Crest bearers are able to sense one another. A few, such as our Professor Hanneman, are even able to determine the nature of a person’s Crest after only a short observation. No blood work necessary.”

“Oh.”

A slim half-smile flickers over Seteth’s lips. “You have never been this close to so many Crest bearers at once, have you?”

Byleth shakes her head. 

“I am not surprised. The number we have around the monastery is fairly unique outside of high courts. Do not worry. You grow  _ used  _ to the sensation. Once you become… acquainted with a person’s presence, it tends to fade into the background until it is practically unnoticeable.”

Unsure of what to think about any of this, and reluctant to ask deeper questions of a complete stranger—and she has so very, very many questions—Byleth merely nods again and reaches for her water glass. After a short drink to cover her silence, she grasps for the first thing she can think of that might change the topic somewhat. “Did you know her well?”

After a brief moment, Seteth asks, “Hestia?” 

Byleth flushes and looks down, ready to take the question back but Seteth is already adding, “No. I did not. We met several times, but I was stationed at a parish in the North-East during her tenure.”

“Then how did you…” She isn’t sure how to finish that question without being certain she would give offense.

Seteth’s smile is slim and unamused. “Few who met her ever forgot, even if it was only once. Besides, those eyes run in the family. I will not be surprised if you share her Crest. Though, I suppose, you may have Jeralt’s.”

“Oh.”

“If I might ask, what  _ has _ your father told you of his time with us?”

There is no good answer to this question, and they both know it. Or rather, there is one good answer: a lie. That seems as unwise as it would be unsustainable. Much as she would love to believe that it won’t need to be sustainable, Byleth isn’t willing to risk that.

“Not much.”

“A shame. Based upon the records, his service here was exemplary. Before the end.”

Byleth is certain that she  _ absolutely _ should not be having this conversation. Jeralt won’t thank her for it. Of course, she won’t thank him for agreeing to remain in this place, even for one night. So far as she’s concerned, they are even in that respect. 

She wets her lips, considering the fallout of asking for clarification. That her father had a bad history with the Church was no surprise—in fact, all of this made far more sense than her earlier guesses ever had. Still, she has no specifics, other than Jeralt’s earlier, offhand comment concerning her mother’s death. 

Had that had something to do with all of this? Maybe. But it always seemed more that he was afraid of or angry with the Church, not like the thought of it simply made him remember her. If the Church had Hestia executed, Byleth could understand, but from the way they all speak about her that doesn’t seem to be the case. 

Before she can make up her mind on what, if anything, to say next, a door opens at the end of the hall and footsteps approach behind her. 

“Come on, Byleth. Seteth, it was good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” says the Archdeacon. He doesn’t move as Byleth rises from the table and follows her father back downstairs.

###  #

They’re shown to a small guest room with two beds, a wash basin, and a window. Geralt thanks the nun who directed them and shuts the door in her face before collapsing onto one of the beds with his head in his hands. 

Byleth waits, listening as the woman’s muttering and footsteps retreat down the hall. Once she’s satisfied they’re alone, she lets what little is left of her mask fall away. 

Keeping her voice low, she asks tightly, “What in all the glorious halls of hel are we  _ doing _ , Dad?” 

“Surviving,” is Jeralt’s dry reply. This closes her mouth again, as she replays the conversation on the terrace in her head. She’d noted a few subtle threats, yes, but not enough to fear imprisonment or… House arrest? _Monastery_ arrest? The fact is that toward the end, Rhea had seemed more-or-less _reasonable_ , if somewhat pushy. 

And then there was that overwhelming sadness in the woman’s eyes… 

Mm. Byleth still doesn’t like or trust her, and would prefer to leave, but she isn’t certain she believes that Rhea would attack them. Not without cause.

Jeralt looks up, cupping his hands around his neck as he and looking far too tired. “I don’t think we’re trapped, exactly,” he clarifies. “It’s possible I misjudged her. I think she will let us  _ leave _ , if we want to go.”

Byleth’s brow furrows at his odd emphasis on the word ‘leave.’ “But?”

“But if she didn’t know where we were before, she does now. And honestly, I’m not convinced I haven’t been a fool this whole time, thinking she  _ didn’t  _ know. I just don’t know why she let us…”

Byleth waits for him to continue, but whatever he was planning to say has died there. Slowly, she sinks down against the wall and tries not to be frustrated with him. Today hasn’t gone well in any respect; beginning with her having another episode, riddled with fighting, and ending with him living through his worst nightmare. To top everything off, they’re both covered in at least two days worth of blood, sweat, road dirt, and muck. 

Despite knowing what’s going to happen, Byleth tugs open the top laces of her cuirass and sniffs beneath the leather. She jerks back with a sharp moan of disgust. 

“They should have some clothes you can borrow, if you want to go down to the bathhouse,” Jeralt says.

Relief surges through her. “They have a bathhouse?” 

Jeralt nods. He recites the directions, vaguely pointing to the distance as he speaks, then adds, “Just ask the attendant about the… damn, what did they call it. Rag box? Extras? Something like that. They don’t take well to people running around naked, here. And be sure to go in the women’s side, not the men’s.”

Byleth, who wouldn’t have hesitated to do either of those things amongst the Company, nods her thanks for the information. She gets to her feet, then hesitates. “Should we be splitting up…?”

“I…” Jeralt rubs his fingers over his lips. “I think you’re fine. Just don’t go wandering too far off that course. This place is big and it’s easy to get lost. If you do, ask a Knight for the abbey guest quarters.”

Slightly chilled by Jeralt telling her to ask a Knight  _ anything _ , Byleth merely nods. She takes one last look at him as she leaves, noting how he’s already lowered his face back into his hands, before returning to his side. He tenses in surprise when she wraps her arms around his shoulders, then sinks into the embrace. His arms wrap around her in turn, strong and assuring.

For one long moment they stay like that, despite their combined reek, before Jeralt puts his hands on her hips and pushes her gently away. “Go on, then. I’ll probably find my way down there myself, soon enough. Give Luca a nice surprise when he gets here tomorrow.”

Byleth smiles and nods. Luca, whose fastidious nature was often at odds with their lifestyle, would be overjoyed they both knew. 

She pats his shoulder one more time and returns to the door, where again she hesitates. The urge to stay and ask all the questions still swirling in her head is strong. But somehow, that just doesn’t seem fair to him right now. She can be patient a little while longer. 

So Byleth lets it go, and quietly shuts the door behind herself. 

###  #

The monastery’s bathhouse is amazing. More used to bathing in rivers, ponds, and dingy public bathhouses which often double as brothels, Byleth has to work to keep her face from betraying her awe. 

Like seemingly every building inside the monastery, the exterior of the bathhouse is made of old white stone, and rises at least three stories off the ground. Though the bottom has no windows, the top two stories are decorated with marching triforium windows in a row just above the arched doorway and below the line of flying buttresses highlighting the walkway roof. Further above them still is a matching line of clerestories, allowing in the light. Tonight, however, the place is lit by a series of delicate brass oil lamps punctuating the interior walls, and hung from posts just outside the door. 

When Byleth asks the attendant inside the main foyer, she’s handed a plain linen shift, cotton smallclothes, and brown cotton dress similar to those she’s seen the nuns wearing, albeit with some patches and mending. Then the woman leads her past a sign over a right-hand doorway reading “Women.” 

Beyond, the space has been divided into a series of wood-panelled bathing chambers with curtains for doors. The ceilings are left open, for better lighting and to let moisture escape, but also subjecting everyone to the noises of what other people get up to in places like these.

Then again, Byleth suspects what she’s used to overhearing may not happen much in this place.

“Leave your clothes,” the attendant says, as she stops by an unoccupied room. “We’ll have them washed and returned tomorrow.”

“Um,” says Byleth, who isn’t sure about handing over anything she owns to strangers, and even less certain what she’s meant to do with an empty, rectangular hole in the stone floor. There’s some sort of spout on the near end, and a pair of handles. 

The woman raises both eyebrows at her, then slowly follows the line of Byleth’s sight. She laughs. “Oh, Goddess Bless, child, I didn’t even think. You haven’t visited us before, have you?”

Byleth shakes her head. 

“Let me show you. It’s the most cunning thing.” 

The woman kneels down next to the handles and twists one. To Byleth’s amazement, water pours freely from the spout and begins to fill the basin. 

“This will heat up a fair bit in a moment, so you’ll want to open the other—that’s the cold, you see—and adjust it before you scald yourself. When you’re done, you just lift that painted stone over there at the end, see it?”

Byleth nods, noting the stone the woman is pointing to. 

“Right. There you go. Lift that, and the water will drain out. Just take care not to overfill the tub, alright?”

“Okay,” Byleth manages to say, eyes still on the miraculously flowing water. The ex-noble castoffs in the Company sometimes told tales of water systems like this, when they could be coaxed into speaking of their pasts at all. Like most of the common born members, Byleth had written them off as exaggerations or lies. She hadn’t thought this sort of thing could really exist, and… here it was. 

“Remember, just leave those dirty things on top of the cabinet, there. Soaps and such are inside.”

With that, the attendant pulls the curtain closed behind her, leaving Byleth with the quickly filling tub. Steam begins to rise from the water, which runs clear as glass and looks oh-so-inviting. 

Deciding she’ll think better when she’s clean, Byleth sets about adjusting the water temperature before divesting herself of all her gear and clothing. She makes two piles; one for her weapons and armor, and the other for the underclothes. Finally, she lets herself enjoy the act of erasing the past several days’ worth of hard labour and horror from her body.

It takes three refills of the tub before the water remains clear while she’s in it. Her hair feels blissfully clean, and her body is completely free of dirt and grime; even beneath her chipped and uneven fingernails. She expects the attendant to come around at any second, annoyed that Byleth is taking so long. In fact, she’s surprised no one has said anything  _ yet _ . Then again, though she’s heard a few people walking down the hall, or murmuring quietly to one another elsewhere in the building, this doesn’t seem like it’s a very busy time for the bathhouse. 

Still, she should get out.

She should.

But the water is. So. Deliciously. Warm.

Byleth’s head tips back against the edge of the pool, vaguely watching her toes wiggle against the stone opposite. Her eyes remain closed a few seconds longer with each blink. Her breathing evens, and slows; it matches a steady drip of water from somewhere nearby. The murmured voices of others become even more muddled and indistinct.

A woman stands across the room, head bent and long, dark hair obscuring her face. 

Her white-and-red nightdress sweeps the stone floor as, with every slow blink of Byleth’s eyes, she moves closer to the tub. 

The woman’s face appears at eye-level, body bent unnaturally with her feet still pressed to the floor. 

One bright, blue eye peers at Byleth from behind her shroud of dark hair.

A voice slithers from the dark. “You.”

Byleth gasps. Water splashes over the sides of the tub as she sits sharply and scrambles along the edges for a weapon. 

“Miss? Are you alright?”

Looking all about the room, pulse thudding in her throat, Byleth realizes she’s alone. 

No, not alone. The attendant is peeking through the curtain, eyes wide and locked on the sword in Byleth’s grasp. She’s made it out of the tub and over to the pile of weaponry, it seems, without even realizing it. 

It says something, though, about what this woman is made of that she doesn’t run away or assume Byleth is up to something. Instead, she stands there, waiting as Byleth’s cheeks turn scarlet and she shakily places her sword back on the pile. “Sorry. Think I… fell asleep.”

“That happens, sometimes, with some of the Knights and such who come through,” the woman says kindly, though there’s a note of concern in the way her brows scrunch up. “Just take care of the wet floor, and yell—again—if you need any help.”

Byleth nods, and the woman jerks the curtain closed again. Had she been yelling?

A little dizzy and confused, Byleth takes another few minutes to dry herself off and tug the strange clothing over her head. All the while, glancing around as though waiting for something else to appear. 

Nothing does. She’s left staring at her pile of discarded things, even less certain what to do now than she’d been when she began. 

In the end, she wipes her belt clean with a damp rag, dries it, and straps it on over her borrowed dress, cinching it tighter than she would normally. She hangs her sword from that, followed by her purse, and then frowns when she remembers—again—that she lost her dagger in the forest. Damn. Instead, she picks up the pocketknife that Claude gave her. It really is a pretty piece, she thinks, before stuffing it down her shirt to settle awkwardly between her dress and belt. Her few pieces of jewelry follow; the horsebow pendant Luca gave her, strung on the same leather thong as the ring her father swore had once been her mother’s, and a leather-and-bead bracelet she’d picked up some time back before she can physically remember. 

Last, she eyes her boots. They’re even filthier than everything else, if that’s possible; caked in mud, and blood, and shit. 

Though she’s hesitant to do so, she considers that, if she’s entrusting the rest of her meager belongings to the Archbishop’s people, then she might as well complete the package. Sure, they are a damned good pair of boots that had cost her half a year’s wages, and replacing them will be next to impossible at present…

But Jeralt sent her down here, and suggested she ask for clothes. He had to have known they would offer this service. Right?

As she continues to hedge, Byleth finds herself drawn to the draining tub behind her. She shivers as she recalls the vision of that woman. 

It was just a nightmare. She’s had them before, and she'll have them again. They don’t  _ mean  _ anything. 

But this one felt like it did. It felt like… it felt like… 

Like every other completely screwed up thing that had happened to her already today. 

Byleth takes a deep breath, and exhales through her nose. She repeats this process several times as she thinks.

She hadn’t given that much thought to the voices or the strange episode she’d had since the fight was over. Had that all been a hallucination as well? It certainly felt like one. No one had actually died, after all, least of all her. And though Byleth would not consider herself the most well-learned person in Fodlan—far, far from it—she was also fairly certain she’d never heard of any kind of magic that could alter the flow of time. It seemed improbable. Impossible. Surely, if it were something that could happen her old tutor would have mentioned it. Wouldn’t he?

And as for the disembodied spirit girl… 

So many questions, and such strange circumstances. It’s all getting to be a little much and she has no idea how to handle any of it.

Better to exist in the here and now. Better to deal with the things she knows; things like weird nobles and their assumptions, and pretending to be normal in other people’s strange little worlds.

Byleth straightens her spine and decides to play along; to take the risk. She leaves her gear behind, trusting the attendant to keep to her word exactly as Jeralt is trusting the Archbishop to keep hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot how much I love writing Seteth. He is such a damn treasure. Also Rhea! Though she can be as difficult as Byleth, sometimes, istg.
> 
> If you're wondering what happened with the proposition, though... don't. We're getting there. I swear ;D But this Very Long No Good Day had to end at some point.


	6. A Morning Bright and New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This week on Ruby Dawn Byleth can't flirt, manages to make a friend, shows off some skill, and gets made an offer she (literally) can't refuse.

She’s asleep again, the girl on the throne; tucked into a tight ball so to fit her entire self into the throne’s wide seat. She looks almost like a lost doll with her arms and legs curled protectively around herself. Her long green hair is piled up beneath her cheek, like a pillow. She’s small, and cherubic, and peaceful. 

And she shouldn’t exist.

Byleth stays below, wary and unsure, as the watchful darkness surrounding them thrums to the rhythm of the sleeping girl’s breath. 

###  #

**Day 16 Great Tree Moon, Year 1180**

Morning light peeks cold and blue through the window of the little guest room. Byleth comes to all at once, as she’s prone to doing, but continues to lay there with her eyes closed as she listens to the strangeness of the world around her. 

The window is open; she can tell by the light breeze tickling hair across her face. No doubt that’s Jeralt’s doing. He always prefers fresh air. Which also explains why there’s a heavier blanket tucked around her than she remembers going to sleep with. He’s the only person whose touch wouldn’t have woken her instantly.

Someone walks down the hall outside, taking care to keep quiet. Byleth tenses for a moment, and inches her fingers toward the pocket knife hidden beneath her pillow, only for the footsteps to pass her room by without anyone disturbing the door. Outside the window comes the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. Beneath that are a few, muted greetings, the stomping of armored feet, a creak of rusty cart wheel. It rolls past, the world falls back to silence.

For just a moment the world is so perfect that Byleth forgets where she is entirely. It takes a shameful several minutes for her to notice all the little things that are missing from a usual tavern morning: no market hawkers setting stalls in a nearby square, no smell nor sound of livestock upon the wind, no squabbling over the inevitable morning cart traffic, no reek of piss as chamber pots are emptied out windows, and no Jeralt or Luca. No breath at all, in fact, but her own. 

She opens her eyes.

Across the room lies an empty, perfectly made bed. Her father’s things are gone, along with him, and finally she remembers that they are not in a tavern. Luca isn’t with them. And there’s a good chance she isn’t supposed to be alone. 

She sits up and pulls the knife from beneath her pillow. There doesn’t seem to be any indication of foul play. All his things are gone, but the bed—while made—was clearly slept in the night before, and the odor of him lingers. 

He’d never gone to the baths himself last night. Perhaps he’d finally decided to clean up. That was the sort of blessing she could get behind. Still, waking up alone in the monastery of all places seems odd to her. 

There’s really only two choices: she can stay here and wait for his hopeful return, or she can go find him. 

Her things haven’t reappeared, so Byleth pulls the cotton dress back on over her shift, collects her weapons which are, thankfully, precisely where she left them, and combs her hair through with her fingers. She makes her bed, and leaves the room more or less as clean as they’d found it, if you ignored the smell and the scuff marks on the floor.

The stone floors are frigid against her bare feet, and wearing a dress instead of leathers is strange, but Byleth doesn’t mind it so much. The cold reminds her that this is all real, and not the product of her increasingly broken mind. That’s what she likes to think, anyway, as she finds her way cautiously through the abbey and down a twisting flight of stairs to the ground level. 

This early there’s only a few people in the halls who pay her surprisingly little mind despite the sword at her hip. That helps her nerves; especially when passing Knights and guards only nod their heads to her and say a faint “good morning.” If someone took Jeralt, surely they’d be trying to stop her from wandering around. 

Rather than attempt entering the great room just inside the abbey—from which Byleth can already hear a multitude of voices—she turns left from the stairs and steps out into the thin morning light. Outside, the air is chilly and damp against her skin, and constantly blowing from the cliff that drops off to her right. 

Finding herself curious, despite a small drop in her stomach when she considers the height, she approaches the balustrade and looks out across the great chasm between the two mountain peaks the monastery straddles. 

The view stops her cold.

There’s a mist in the forest below that glitters rose and gold between the treetops as the sun breaches the eastern horizon. Just then, as her breath is pulled from her lungs, the cathedral bells begin to chime a sweet morning song into the stillness.

For this moment in time—this single, precious moment with the wind playing in her hair and swirling her skirt about her legs—the monastery does not feel like a potential prison; it feels like true peace; like a tiny slice of paradise; like the only things that exist here are her, and the cathedral bells, and the brilliant dawn. 

The dawn… 

“Byleth?”

She jolts back into reality with a startled gasp. 

The boy stands beside her; the one with the screaming eyes and demonic strength. Dimitri has one hand on the balustrade next to hers, their fingers mere inches from one another as he leans slightly inward with worry knotted in his eyebrows. 

Then, seeming to realize how close he is, his eyes widen and he steps backward and straightens. “My apologies. I did not mean to startle you. I just did not recognize… That is—I was not expecting to see you. I thought you and your father had left yesterday.”

“The Archbishop wanted us to stay,” she says, still attempting to piece together what’s happening. She isn’t used to being snuck up on. When had she let her guard so low?

More importantly… Despite his injuries the day before, Dimitri seems to be perfectly fine now. In fact, if it weren’t for those remarkable eyes she might not have recognized him. His hair is far cleaner, and far more golden when it isn’t streaked in blood and sweat. There’s a faint sheen of blonde stubble across his chin and jaw which glitters in the sunlight as his lips twitch into a shy smile. And…

She blinks at the strange uniform he’s wearing. In place of the black-and-gold uniform from yesterday, he’s wearing a sleeveless blue tunic over short dark trews, that shows off the breadth of his shoulders and firm, leanly muscled arms and the length of his legs. 

It looks like a training suit of some kind, though she’s never seen it’s like before. What’s more, he’s standing straight and moving about like he’s in no pain at all. 

“You look better,” she says.

“I could say the same of you,” he says, sounding a little distant before his face abruptly pinkens and one hand presses to his previously wounded side. “Ah! You meant— _ Yes _ , of course you meant…” 

He clears his throat, then adds, “Professor Manuela is highly skilled at healing magics. She had me patched up most efficiently.”

“Good,” says Byleth. 

They stare at one another, neither quite certain what to say. Finally, Dimitri inclines his head and shoulders toward her in a small bow. “Thank you for your time, Byleth, and it was nice seeing you again. I should—”

“Hey, Dima! Are you coming or what?” 

Dimitri’s gaze cuts behind Byleth, and she turns to find an even taller red-headed boy jogging their direction. He’s wearing the same uniform as Dimitri, which clashes terribly with his wild red hair. His bright orange eyes twinkle in delight when he catches sight of Byleth. 

The boy slows to a walk as he approaches them, a grin spreading across his face. Voice dropping with a note of disapproval, Dimitri says, “I was just headed that way, Sylvain.”

“Sure, sure,” says Sylvain. He flaps a hand at Dimitri, his gaze rooted to Byleth as he takes a place against the balustrade on her other side, leaving her trapped between the pair. 

He’s one of them, she notices immediately; a Crest bearer. Whatever that means. 

His presence isn’t as overbearing as Edelgard’s, nor as tormented as Dimitri’s. Neither is it easy and sly, like Claude’s. Instead, she finds that standing next to him is eerily kin to standing before a fireplace on a cold night. Warm and inviting, and oh so dangerous if you dare to trust it too much. 

“Sylvain Gautier. If Dimitri didn’t give  _ that  _ away, already. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” says Sylvain, extending her a hand in the commoner’s fashion. “I definitely would have noticed if I had.  _ Please  _ tell me you’re here to join the Academy. We need a beauty such as yourself to brighten up the place.”

Byleth looks between him and his hand, a little baffled by the sudden attention. She isn’t completely naive, of course. She understands what flirting  _ is _ —in theory. She’s overheard others courting before, and the more legitimate attempts always seem to involve comments about a person’s beauty or personality. Not the sort of comments she is used to entertaining, that’s for certain. The few people who have attempted flirting with her in the past always seemed to favour lewd suggestions and bold grabs for things they shouldn’t touch. In those instances, she had no issue resolving the matter with a sharp blade to something soft. 

But  _ this _ ? What is she supposed to do with  _ this _ ?

Brows scrunching, and wondering how the Knights will react if she goes for her pocket knife, Byleth reaches in to shake his hand. 

To her continuing shock, Sylvain—who seems to sense nothing wrong here—instead turns her hand over and kisses the back of it, all without taking his eyes off hers.

“Um,” says Byleth. Her fingers switch toward her scabbard, even as her skin tingles with electricity. No one’s ever touched her like this before. 

“ _ Sylvain _ ,” says Dimitri.

“Sorry, your Highness, am I interrupting something?” Sylvain winks at Byleth, his breath caressing the skin of her hand, before he lets it go and stands straight. She pulls it back instantly and steps backward, bumping into Dimitri’s chest.

They both wobble, then Dimitri catches her shoulder to steady her as he steps around to her side. 

“What? No. There is nothing here to interrupt.” He gestures behind Sylvain, to a building that, from this angle, she can see separates the cobblestoned main yard from a dirt training ground set along the chasm’s curved edge. “Are you not supposed to be training with Felix?”

“Well, yeah, so are you. That’s why I came to find you. He’s in a complete mood this morning. Some of the Eagles and Deer are already in there, and he thought we’d have the place to ourselves.”

“Ah, I see,” says Dimitri; his tone growing worried and serious. “Then we should attend to him before things get out of hand.”

“If that’s the hill you wanna die on,” mutters Sylvain.

Dimitri cracks the smallest smile before turning back to Byleth and bowing once again. “My apologies, but we should be on our way. It was good to see you Byleth, and thanks once again for yesterday.” 

As the two jog toward the training facility bits of their conversation bounce back to her across the stone. 

“And, uh, exactly what  _ did  _ she do for you yesterday?”

“Not anything like what you are thinking.”

“Ahha. That sounds like something alright.”

“Sylvain.”

“Don’t worry! I get it. I’m not going to do anything if you’re—”

Their bickering fades away as Dimitri shoulders open the door and they disappear inside. Byleth slowly strolls in that direction, fingers drifting along the balustrade as she tries to make sense of what just happened. 

The idea of Sylvain flirting with her seems impossible enough, even with evidence. However, it's quite apparent that  _ he  _ is convinced Dimitri had been doing the same. That notion Byleth absolutely cannot believe. But the idea that he  _ might  _ have? It’s an intriguing, if foreign, concept. One that flushes her skin and does all sorts of interesting things to her insides when she considers Dimitri’s lips brushing her hand as Sylvain’s had; soft and gentle, with just the faintest hint of moisture...

She pauses where she has a decent view of the outdoor training yard and the handful of uniformed people who are spilling from the building and to form a loose fighting circle. From this distance it’s difficult to make out anyone in specific—though Sylvain’s bright hair gives him away very well—beyond the mixture of uniform colours. Some are blue, but there are vermillion uniforms as well, and a smattering of golden-rod. 

Light steps on the path behind her warn her of yet another stranger’s approach, but Byleth doesn’t turn away from the yard. The students are forming a ring as two of them take sparring stances in the center. One wears blue; the other red with hair that’s a close match for Sylvain’s.

“Boys,” says a chipper, giggling voice beside her. “They are quite strange creatures, are they not?”

She glances down, and double takes when she realizes that the girl next to her has a similar shade of green hair to the one she’s been seeing  _ everywhere  _ these past couple days. It spills down the girl’s shoulders in twin, voluminous twists; practically obscuring the top half of her black-and-gold dress. The style of her clothing is similar to the student’s uniforms, but also reminiscent of the nun’s attire in a way that leaves her place with the monastery dubious at a glance. 

The girl smiles, blinking pastel green eyes up at her, and again Byleth is awash beneath a powerful presence. This one, though… This girl matches the serenity of their surroundings perfectly. She is calm and joyful, and altogether so pleasant that Byleth nearly finds herself smiling, too. 

Every muscle in her body relaxes as she nods agreement.

“My brother says I should be careful of them,” the girl informs her, looking back across the cliff toward the training grounds. “Particularly of young Sylvain. He is a rascal, I am told, and I fear it must be true as he has only been here a short while and it seems everyone has a similar opinion.”

“Everyone can be wrong,” Byleth says without heat, though her mind immediately jumps to her own hated nickname.

“Do you think so? You have been graced with his attention, or so it appeared. Surely you must have an opinion.”

“You were listening?”

“Oh!” The girl claps a hand over her mouth. “Was that rude of me? I was walking within the courtyard and I could not help but overhear. I assumed, as the conversation was had publicly, that it was up for discussion. Is this not the case?”

Byleth, who until this moment thought she was the only person who had ever made that mistake, smiles again, however briefly. “I don’t mind,” she says, though it isn’t  _ entirely  _ true, “I just don’t really know what that was, either. It’s difficult to have an opinion when I’m not sure what transpired, myself.”

“Ah! I understand precisely!” The girl beams at her, and for once Byleth thinks that may actually be true. “My name is Flayn. I think you are Byleth, are you not? Jeralt’s daughter?”

“I am…”

“It is wonderful to meet you. My brother—Seteth—told me he was not certain how long you would be staying this morning, but that you may be within the township for a time. I had hoped we might be friends, you and I, if that is not too presumptuous.”

“You want to be friends with  _ me _ ?” Another foreign concept; someone wanting to be friends with her. And so quickly? She is less certain by the minute that this is truly reality. 

“Very much so!”

“But you have…” Choices, she thinks. Unable to end the sentence properly, her gaze drifts back to the other students. The red-head fighter has backed away, replaced by a taller youth in yellow with purple hair.

“Oh,” says Flayn, following Byleth’s gaze. Her tone dips for a moment as she admits, “I am not a student here. I should like to be, one day, but my brother worries. For now, I am apart.”

It is a feeling Byleth understands instantly. She meets the girl’s gaze again, easy as it is with her simple, beautiful presence, and though she doesn’t know how to be a friend, exactly, or even if this is the way you’re supposed to make one, Byleth thinks she would like to learn. 

“I don’t know how long we’ll be staying, but sure. That would be nice.”

“How wonderful!” Flayn claps her hands together and prances in places, not seeming to care in the slightest what anyone might think of her. 

Still bouncing, those pale green eyes cut back to the training yard before Flayn leans in conspiratorially. Their height difference is such that Byleth finds herself leaning in to hear, though the stage whisper likely carries further than Flayn intends. “Would you like to get a closer look?”

“Are we allowed?”

“I often observe the practices,” Flayn informs her. “I know all the best places where we will not be observed, ourselves.” 

That wasn’t a  _ direct _ answer, but it was an answer. Byleth lifts a brow as Flayn darts down the walkway toward the doors where Dimitri and Sylvain had disappeared a short time before. The girl beckons Byleth to follow and, after a glance around confirms that no one seems to be paying them any attention, she follows.

###  #

From the outside it seemed silly to think they could get inside undetected. In truth, that would have been the case had there been anyone inside to see them. 

The broad double doors open upon a deserted square ring surrounding a patch of glass-roofed dirt floor clearly intended for indoor training. Weapon racks line the walls, a few straw practice dummies are set up across the room, and a whole herd of footprints lead across the practice grounds toward one of the room’s two additional doors. 

The western door, which matches the one they’d just come through, obviously connects with the exterior training yard beyond. A smaller door is tucked away in the shadows to the south. Flayn goes for the second door, cutting through the dirt without thought for the tracks she’s leaving. Though it makes Byleth frown, she follows in kind and slips through behind her before anyone can follow them or come in from the yard. 

“This is the extra weapons storage,” says Flayn needlessly as they pass through a room filled with what seems to Byleth to be an army’s worth of blades in sore need of retirement. Which, she supposes, they have achieved. Where else should a good blade go to die but the hands of the inexperienced, who are just going to break them anyway?

There are a few other doors here, including a western one which Flayn ignores to go south again. They pass down a long hall, and then into a stable where several older horses graze. Byleth is beginning to sense a theme. 

“Hello, Godfrey,” Flayn says to a grizzled old dog that lifts its head at their entrance. “Do not be afraid. Byleth is a friend.”

The dog thumps its tail without the slightest hint that it was ever bothered by a stranger’s presence. Flayn and Byleth both bend to pet its head before moving on through the stables and out a side door. 

The sunlight is good and bright, bouncing across a wide area ringed by stone outbuildings along one side and the cliffside along the other. Only a few scraggly trees and a short wooden fence separate the training grounds and the cliff, but the grounds themselves have been divided into specific practice areas. Flayn and Byleth have exited into an archer’s pitch. The practice ring—from whence rises the distinctive noise of clashing blades and a crowd cheering fighters on—is obscured by a large back-board securing several targets, a few stacks of hay and, to Byleth’s amusement, a short stand of spectator’s seats facing their direction. 

Flayn scurries over to the benches, climbing into the rows until she can sit backwards, peering over the top of the structure at the yard below. Byleth follows suit, restraining her smile at what seems like a childish bit of sport. She literally can’t remember the last time she’d done anything of this sort, and while it feels a little foolish it’s also… 

It’s also  _ fun _ . 

A bevy of teenagers surround two fighters in the center of a packed-dirt circle lined by a similar wooden fence to the one keeping the cliffside at bay. As Byleth noticed earlier, they are all in uniform and sorted into three distinct colours. Among them, she notes three familiar faces, as well as Sylvain, and a few whom she might recognize from yesterday’s trek through the abbey. 

Though she’s fairly certain what the answer will be, Byleth leans close to Flayn and asks, “What do the colours mean?”

“Ah! Yes, you are not familiar with the Academy, are you?” Byleth shakes her head, and Flayn smiles. She points surreptitiously over the rim of the stands. “The Officer’s Academy divides the students into three Houses, based largely upon the students’ country of origin. Those you see in yellow are the Golden Deer. They all hail from the Leicester Alliance.

“Everyone in blue hails from Faerghus, and are called the Blue Lions, while those in red are—”

“The Crimson Eagles?” Byleth guesses, recalling something Sylvain said earlier.

“That would be more fitting, perhaps,” says Flayn, giggling, “But they are called the Black Eagles. I am not entirely certain why, as we always designate them with red. As you have probably assumed, they are from the Empire.”

“They don’t get along well, I guess?”

“There are some rivalries, from what I have observed.” Flayn shrugs. “But if you mean to ask why they are sorted into Houses at all, I am afraid that I do not know. Though, you might ask my brother if you are truly curious. He is quite the historian; particularly upon Church matters.”

“Hm.” Byleth nods, returning her attention to the ongoing fight. 

The pair in the center are a Faerghus boy with a strong Dagnan bent to his features; dark hair and lithe, moon-pale body. He’s switched partners again, now facing off against a girl who—if Byleth wasn’t so hard pressed to believe it—looks to be from Brigid. Her skin is about as dark as Claude’s, her red-violet hair is done up in a Brigid fashion, and as she turns Byleth could swear that there is a tattoo beneath one of her eyes. But she’s wearing  _ Empire  _ colours. Though immigrants are common enough, it seems strange to find someone Brigid-born in a place likely filled with Imperial nobility; not with their bad blood barely put to bed. 

Then again, there is Claude—presently looks to be engaged in placing wagers with several other students—whose clear Almyran ancestry ought to have barred him from Alliance nobility, so far as Byleth understood matters. The common folk might not have much to say about it—though they’d say plenty, she was sure, assuming they knew—but nobles were usually much more unforgiving of the Other. 

That’s when she notices the hulking mountain of a lad standing in the shadows next to the overhang hiding the training hall door. His skin is dusky dark, his hair an alarming bone white, and unlike all the others here, he doesn’t seem to be having any fun at all. And why should he be? There’s not a single doubt in Byleth’s mind that this boy is from Duscar, and he’s dressed in Faerghus blue. 

The boy’s eyes shift, and his eyebrows lift as he meets Byleth’s gaze over the back of the bleachers. Feeling terribly rude, Byleth nods as politely as she can to him. The boy nods back, and Byleth drags her gaze back to the fight. In her peripheral vision, she notes as he leaves the shadows to whisper something into Dimitri’s ear. 

“Dedue,” Flayn supplies. 

“Hm?”

“The boy from Duscar. That is his name. I do not know much more than that of him, except that, despite being an enrolled student, he is also often apart.”

“He is very observant.”

“Mm,” Flayn agrees with a nod. She curls her arms on the back of the bleachers and settles her chin atop as they watch the Dagnan boy and Brigid girl return to a circling position. 

They are both panting, but so far neither has managed to land a clean hit. They seem evenly matched, for all that Byleth is somewhat uncertain what is taking them long. Even without paying attention she spotted a hundred ways their fight could have ended in either’s favour. On a battlefield, it surely would have if either of them cared to live. You couldn’t take this long with a single opponent or you’d undoubtedly be killed by someone else. 

The girl rushes forward, diving beneath the boy when he attempts to parry a feigned attack. Byleth expects her to drive the wooden practice blade up against his ribs. She sees the girl tense to do it, even as her grip shifts alarmingly upon her blade—

She fumbles, and misses her opportunity. By the time she finds her feet behind him, he’s already recovering. He gets up and turns, easily blocking the blow she aimed for his back.

He  _ blocks _ it. With a rapier-styled training blade. What?

In fact, the longer their fight goes on the more often he attempts using the rapier as he would a longsword, she realizes. He’s going to lose. He should have lost a lot earlier, but even if his opponent continues to miss obvious openings he will lose by becoming all the more reckless.

Byleth gives up all pretense of subtlety as she leans forward, fist to cheek, and counts every potential death blow that was completely overlooked or fumbled. 

Sure enough, after several more minutes of pointless dancing about the field—though this all seems to amuse their friends to no end—the girl steps out of a hard block, sending the boy staggering forward under his own momentum. She delivers a sharp blow to his back that lands him in the dirt in a move not unlike what Byleth had used herself to dispatch an enemy only a couple days before, then presses the tip of her blade against the back of his neck. 

“Yeild,” the boy growls into the dirt. The girl nods, and lifts her blade.

She steps backward, away from him, with a wince. “I am being sorry, Felix. Have I done the hurting too much?”

“It was a lucky shot,” the boy grumbles as he brushes off Sylvain’s help and climbs to his feet. “Though you fought well.”

“And you are doing as well,” the girl replies with a short bow. “It was being a good match. I should like to be learning this footwork from you one day, perhaps?”

Byleth winces at that. This boy doesn’t need to be teaching her anything about footwork; not with a rapier, anyway. 

“Is something wrong?” asks a familiar voice from beneath the stands. 

Flayn squeaks in surprise. Byleth looks down to find, once again,  _ Dimitri _ . He leans against one of the stand supports, arms crossed and neck craned back to look up at them. Despite the smile on his face there’s a worried note in his eyes as he clarifies, “You looked… concerned, I think.”

“Their fighting style,” says Byleth, without thinking much of it. Then that pressured weight hits her again, and Byleth realizes how quiet the pitch is. “Neither of them are using the rapiers correctly.”

“Excuse me? And what would you know about it?” demands Felix.

She looks up to find that every eye is directed at her. While several look amused (and a few are nodding, she notes,) she can’t escape the blatant hostility on Felix’s face, nor the consternation on his fighting partner’s. At least the girl’s gaze is easier to bear.

Byleth swallows hard, feeling her ability to speak stalling in her throat. 

Into that silence, Claude descends like an angel. 

“Hey, Byleth!” He nudges a heavier boy aside and steps into the pitch proper, with his arms spread in welcome. “I didn’t realize you were still hanging around today. You and your dad staying a while?”

She shakes her head, and manages to force out, “We have a job for the Church. Maybe.”

“For the Church? How unusual,” says Edelgard. “I was under the impression that they do not generally hire mercenaries.”

A girl in golden-rod with shockingly pink hair squeals, “Wait,  _ she’s _ a  _ mercenary _ ? No way! She’s way too cute for that.” 

Byleth blinks in surprise even as several others laugh. Claude winks at Byleth. “I have to admit you clean up pretty nice. Come around here, why don’t you, so we can see you properly?”

As Byleth hesitates, several of the others join in the call until she feels like she has no choice but to comply. The last person she looks at is Dimitri, who says so softly she almost can’t hear him, “If you would rather not, it is alright. You are under no obligation, Bye.”

Something about that—whether it’s his understanding, or the way he says her nickname—speeds her pulse and breaks the last of Byleth’s restraint. With a wincing, soft “Sorry,” to Flayn, she works her way quickly down the bleachers and around them into the practice pitch. Not one to be left behind, the green-haired girl follows quickly after.

“Everyone,” says Dimitri, raising his voice to easily be heard over the din, “You remember the mercenaries we told you about, who helped the three of us on our mission for the Church? This is Byleth. She saved my life.”

“And mine,” says Claude.

“She saved us all,” says Edelgard with the faintest of smiles and nods to Byleth as the girl stops next to Dimitri. “I am curious what your thoughts were on the match, however. What  _ did  _ you mean, precisely?”

“Yeah,” adds Felix, “If you have something to say, say it.”

If Byleth weren’t increasingly irritated by his attitude, she might have kissed him. His blatant antagonism is exactly what she needs to throw off the shackles of embarrassment and shyness. Lifting her chin, Byleth meets the boy’s gaze as she says, “Felix, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“You were trained to the longsword, not the rapier. I would say you’ve been using a rapier for two months at absolute maximum. Am I wrong?”

His eyes widen slightly, then narrow. It’s Sylvain who snickers from the sidelines and says, “She’s got you there, man.”

“Shut up,” snaps Felix. Then, to Byleth he adds, “How did you know?”

“Your stance, to begin with. May I?” She extends a hand to the girl, who hands her practice weapon over without pause. “Thank you.”

Byleth takes the weapon, and drops into a classic rapier stance with her free hand folded against the small of her back. “The rapier is a finesse weapon built for quick cuts and precision strikes. It's favoured in court duels and self-defense over infantry for a reason.”

“That doesn’t answer—” Felix cuts off with a yelp as Byleth darts forward with a quick thrust aimed at his chest. He bounces back, as she expected he would, and falls immediately into a longsword stance. 

“And that is why you didn’t win in the beginning,” Byleth says. “She may be faster than you are, but unless I’ve missed my mark she’s trained to knife fights, not swords. The length of the blades confused her in a way that should have been in your favour. However—”

She moves in for a series of thrusts and cuts. Felix manages to correct his form in time to parry the first three strikes, but by the fourth he’s losing patience. He blocks, then stumbles when she lets him carry himself past her. With his back exposed, she delivers a strike in warning—hard enough to feel, but not hard enough to bruise—and says, “Again.”

Felix turns to face her, but the anger he’d clearly felt is more subdued now. His Crest projects a strong aura of curiosity and stubborn pride, but not the seething rage she expected. Is it possible he truly doesn’t mind this?

She nods once, and he attacks. This time, she defends—parrying every assault and keeping him at sword’s length until, again from frustration, his grip shifts to a two-handed stance. The moment he fumbles with it, she dives in to press the tip of her blade against his clavicle.

“Can you tell me what the problem is,” she asks. 

“I keep switching,” he says, with an exasperated sigh. 

She nods. “You went slower, and missed several good opportunities in the beginning because you were  _ thinking  _ about keeping your form. The longer the fight went on, the more frustrated you became, and the harder you leaned on your old training. That’s the burden and the blessing of muscle memory. You need it for combat—there isn’t time to sit back and think when you’re in the field—but when it comes to picking up a new weapon, particularly one that’s close a cousin to your main weapon, it can screw you up if you move on to live combat too soon. You need to concentrate on drills first. I’ve found that training your body to recognize the difference in weight between the sword types is a good place to begin.”

“How were you knowing I am more liking to the knives?” asks the girl, now leaning against the fence to their side. 

“As I said, the length of the blades. You adapted very well when it came to keeping him away from you—which is smart. If he’d managed to close the way he’d wanted, he would have won despite his form—but when it came time to strike, you kept hesitating when the blade was out of your direct line of sight. Perhaps there’s another reason, but based on a few of your narrower misses it seemed like you were expecting the blade to be shorter than it was, and you were never quite sure how to use it without hurting him unduly. I also caught you switching to a knife grip at several critical moments.” 

Byleth didn’t mention the few times  _ she’d  _ been worried the girl was going to complete a strike that might have skewered the boy like a fish—wooden blade or not. 

The girl smiles and nods her head to Byleth. “You are not being wrong. The knives are not much liked upon in Fodlan, so I am being told it is better training with this sword, but I am not having much liking for it.”

“What exactly are  _ you  _ trained in, anyway?” asks Felix as he finally relaxes his stance. Byleth does in kind, and offers the sword hilt-first back to the girl. 

“Longsword, primarily, though as evidenced I am familiar with other styles, including fencing. Archery, some axe-work, knife fighting, light lance work for calvary purposes, and both offensive and defensive magics.” 

“That’s quite a list,” mutters Sylvain.

“Wait,” says Edelgard, “You know  _ offensive _ magic, as well as healing?”

Oops.

“It isn’t my speciality,” Byleth attempts to cover. It doesn’t work. She can see that, plain as day, in Edelgard’s sparking violet eyes.

“I knew you were somewhat unusual before,” Edelgard says, a light smile playing across her lips. “But now I suspect you are somewhat extraordinary.”

“I could not agree more,” says a light, dulcet voice from the training hall.

The entire congregation turns to find the Archbishop standing in the now open doorway, watching them with a bemused smile. She extends a hand toward Byleth. 

“I was just on my way to meet your father and saw the commotion as I passed by,” she says, “Would you walk with me? I should like to speak with you a moment.”

Though she knows a conversation alone with the Archbishop is something Jeralt would never approve of, Byleth sees no way around it. 

Without daring to look at anyone for help—after all, there wasn’t anyone here who would possibly understand how little she wants to be alone with Rhea—she nods her assent. “Of course, Lady Rhea.”

###  #

Walking back along the cliffs, they pause together to watch the group across the chasm, who have resumed whatever it was they had been doing prior to Byleth’s interruption. The light smile upon Rhea’s face never wavers, though neither does the sadness radiating from the woman’s shoulders like a palpable force ever lessen. 

Unsure what else to say, Byleth finds herself asking, “I thought the Academy classes didn’t start for another week?”

“They do not,” says Rhea, a note of surprise in her voice, “But our students are among the most ambitious in Fodlan. There are always several, every year, who take it upon themselves to begin their training during our arrivals week. This year drew a larger crowd than most. Including you, and young Flayn it seems.”

Byleth looks away when Rhea turns to her. “It was my idea to watch them. I didn’t mean to get her in any trouble.”

“Was it?” Rhea asks, and laughs. “Flayn has a habit of sneaking in to watch the training, whether it be the students or the Knights. She would very much enjoy participating, I believe. Unfortunately, that decision is not hers as yet.”

“So, she isn’t in trouble?”

“With me? Never. I admire your instinct to take responsibility, actually, even if I would prefer you do not lie to me in the future.”

“I…”

“It is all right,” Rhea repeats, more softly, and Byleth shuts her mouth with a click. Rhea waves one hand, and proceeds walking slowly toward the abbey. Unsure what else she can do, Byleth falls into step beside her.

She’s surprised when Rhea says, “I would be quite interested in seeing how well you fight against one of our Knights, Byleth, but I must say you seem remarkably well trained based upon the demonstration I just witnessed. Particularly if your skill is as broad as you claimed.”

“I had a great teacher.”

“One of the best this land has ever seen,” Rhea agrees. “How long have you been working for the Strikers?”

“My father—”

“Not  _ him _ ,” Rhea interjects, quietly but firmly. “You.”

“Oh. Um.” Byleth hesitates, somewhat unsure how to answer that. She knows that the incident which stole her earlier memories—if not her training—had happened roughly nine years ago. It was shortly after that they joined the Strikers under Leroy’s leadership, and another three years before Jeralt took over. 

Originally, even old Leroy had been against putting her on the field directly. She’d been too “young,” though no one specified her precise age. She’d been made a battlefield runner, keeping her mostly behind the lines, delivering messages between their Company and allied commanders. However, that didn’t make her off limits to enemy combatants. 

She killed her first few men within that year. By the time Leroy had descended into his cups, she was a regular feature of any covert operation or light skirmish. Somewhere between his death and Jeralt’s ascension to Captain, Byleth found her pay increased to full membership. There are no signed documents that she’s aware of; it all just… happened. 

“Nine years, give or take,” she says, finally. It was better that, than a lie.

“Nine years,” Rhea repeats, her mouth setting into a firm, disapproving line. “I see. That gives you more experience than a number of our younger Knights.”

Not knowing what else to say, Byleth keeps her mouth shut as two of the stationed men open the abbey door for them, and follows Rhea into the low, dark hallway. To Byleth’s surprise, Rhea does not go for the stairs. Nor does she turn into the abbey itself, but instead proceeds past the intersection and toward the door at the far end of the hallway. 

“Tell me, in all that time have you ever trained any of the Strikers yourself?”

A little surprised, Byleth nods. “I have.”

“How often, would you say?”

“Usually just new recruits, if there’s time between jobs and someone needs it. Sometimes the older ones who want to pick up or hone a skill set I’m better trained for. Dad used to, but he can’t spare it any time at all, these days.” She doesn’t mention how discomforted the new recruits usually are with her. Those who stick around often joke that Byleth was their personal “trial by fire.” If recruits can’t handle having “the Demon” as their trainer, they aren’t fit for the Strikers. 

Byleth never liked those jokes much. At the same time, she was sorry they hadn’t had any opportunity for that this year. Not yet, anyway.

“You are impressively skilled, if what I heard was correct. Given who your teacher was, I cannot say that I have any reason to doubt. Though I am curious how it is you came to an understanding of magic.”

Again, a set of knights push the far doors open for them. Together, they descend a short flight of stairs onto a tree-lined walkway. The chasm continues to their left, just past a small courtyard with several stone benches. Nearby, a second flight of stairs continues further down, seemingly disappearing into the cliffside itself. 

Rhea guides Byleth into the courtyard and pauses there, hand to the balustrade, as she overlooks the chasm. At her side, Byleth glances down and notices that the second flight of stairs curves around the cliffside to connect with a lower tier bathed in green grass and stately headstones. The graveyard sweeps around the cliff and seems to continue out of sight. 

Sensing the question still lingering in the air, Byleth gathers her wits enough to say, “As I taught others, there were Company members to teach me. A few were well-educated noble castoffs who understood the principles of magic.”

“Still, to be so gifted in both magical and mundane combat shows a remarkable dedication to the craft that is rare for someone outside of an Order.” Rhea lifts a brow at Byleth, then her smile widens. “Do you think I mean to disparage your fellow mercenaries?”

Byleth, whose thoughts had run along those lines, clenches both hands upon the balustrade and tries to school her expression back into something less noticeable. 

“Forgive me,” says Rhea. “I truly meant no offense, only that those outside of official Orders rarely have the time to learn so many disciplines, and magic is among the most difficult to master. Particularly without rather advanced mathematical principles and alchemic diagrams to draw from.”

“As I said earlier, magic isn’t my speciality. My healing is really only good for surface wounds, and my range and power with offensive magic is markedly low.”

“You should never lower your own accomplishments,” Rhea chides lightly. “All that tells me is that, with proper guidance and facilities, you have the potential to go much further. If it would interest you to do so.”

If it would interest her? Now there is a foreign notion, indeed. 

Byleth frowns, looking down into the forest where the early mist has begun to dissipate, leaving a sea of unbroken green in its wake. 

Very little in her life has been about whether or not something ‘interests’ her. She’s learned all her skills because they’re valuable; both in keeping her alive, and in keeping her  _ family  _ alive. Her day to day is filled with orders; both followed and given. She takes time to fish, sure, when it’s afforded to her. But otherwise…

It’s never occurred to her that she might have a choice in any of these things. It’s never really felt like she did. They’ve always been mercenaries.  _ She’s  _ always been a mercenary. She’s never even imagined what her life would be like if she could choose something else. If, for example, she could stay in a place as serene as this one, and spend all her time studying. 

Ok, that would be boring. Also, very uncomfortable with all the staring and the people. And yet… she can’t help but wonder. What would she do, if she weren’t a mercenary? 

Rhea says something. Byleth only registers the noise in the aftermath, and has to shake her head to clear it. “Excuse me? What?”

Looking amused, Rhea laughs quietly and says, “I believe your father is below. We could wait on him here, or go find him. Either way, I would appreciate it if you would stay for our discussion.”

“I’m not sure he’d like that.”

“Perhaps not. However, as we are in my home, I believe he will concede.”

###  #

The graveyard is a little too vast and exposed for Byleth’s liking, though it makes sense for a place as old and large as Garreg Mach. From it’s first tier, lower down than the monastery’s primary foundation, the wide green field swoops across several hills and cliffsides, shorn up by retaining walls of white stone and shielded from invasion by sheer drops down the mountainside. The pasture is punctuated by white stone markers in a variety of shapes, ornamentation and age, here and there accented by tiny buildings the Archbishop identifies as “mausoleums.” Byleth notices as they pass that there are even a few cliffs with doorways in them, indicating either caretakers’ quarters, or burial chambers buried within the mountain itself. 

The pair keep to the paths laid in stone that wind their way across the field in a labyrinthine fashion. Other pedestrians are not so careful; venturing out into the forest of gravestones to pay their respects with flowers and offerings. Several of these figures prove not to be human at all, Byleth realizes, as they draw closer to them. 

When Rhea catches Byleth eyeing the goats, she laughs and says, “They keep the yard well maintained, and they are easier to clean up after than some alternatives.”

“Oh.”

Finally, Byleth recognizes the distant figure of her father sitting on a stone bench beneath a broad, willow near a small retention pond. He looks up as they approach, and immediately turns a guilty look upon the headstone nestled between the tree’s roots. 

“Byleth. I didn’t realize you were up,” he says, standing. It looks like he hasn’t had much sleep. He did, however, make time for a bath. 

Then, with a gesture to the stone, Jeralt adds, “Would… you like to meet your mother?”

Mouth suddenly dry, Byleth steps back and shakes her head. She hadn’t decided to do it, but it feels right all the same. Jeralt slowly drops his hand back to his side, saying nothing.

“I am sorry to intrude,” says Rhea into the awkwardness that follows. “But I know that you wished to leave as soon as possible, and I thought it best to make myself available to you. Would you prefer we speak later?”

“No. This is fine. About your offer—”

“Hold on, please.” Jeralt shuts his mouth at Rhea’s interjection. She folds the hand she’d raised back around her other, pressing both just over her stomach like she’s trying to hold herself together and says, “I would like to alter the deal we discussed last night.”

“How so?” asks Jeralt, immediately tense again. 

“Jeralt, please. Can we sit?” 

“You can.”

The Archbishop sighs, and doesn’t move. “Jeralt… you are the finest Knight Captain we ever had, and your parting with our Order was… I will not say a ‘tragedy,’ not any longer, particularly as I understand your reasons for wanting to leave. You lost someone who was quite dear to you—we both did—and things have never been the same between us since then.”

Jeralt’s jaw works as though he wants to say something—something choice, by the looks of it—and Rhea pauses to give him the space to speak. In the end, he elects not to, and she continues. 

“Understand, that if dearest Patricia were still with us, I would not make this offer. She was a good woman, and a fine Knight Captain, and I know that I do not set my people aside lightly. However, Patricia is  _ not  _ with us, and it struck me last night that though our circumstances are not ideal, this is the best opportunity we could have to right what has been wrong, here, for some time.”

“I’m only one man.”

“You are a  _ good _ man,” Rhea corrects. “That is far more rare than you seem to understand. The Knights need someone like you to lead them. To be where I cannot.”

“Alois—”

“Is a wonderful person, and sorely lacking when it comes to matters of leadership. We would have elevated him years ago, had that not been the case then, as it is now.” Rhea shakes her head. “You, Jeralt. You were always the best choice for the job. I knew it when you were given the position thirty years ago, and I know it now. We would have you return to us. You— _ and _ your Strikers.”

That stops the protest already on Jeralt’s lips. He blinks, then frowns, and blinks again. “Excuse me?”

“Seteth made a valid point. We need a force upon our borders, assuring that no further threat exists for our people. Please, understand I am not offering them induction into the Order. They will not be considered a religious force. However, I am offering them a retainer from the Church. There are uses for having a versatile, easily mobile unit available to us, particularly with the strong resurgence of bandit activity throughout the region these past few years.”

“Does that mean no more civil skirmishes?” Byleth asks. Jeralt shoots her a look, and Rhea seems somewhat surprised. 

“Not precisely. We do occasionally help one side or the other in such matters,” Rhea says before Jeralt can interject. “Dependent upon the nature of the issue and the facts of the matter, of course.”

“And exactly would we get out of this?” Jeralt asks, crossing his arms over his meaty chest.

“In addition to regular money you won’t need to chase after?” Rhea smiles sharply. “The old faire grounds. The soil there has no further use in farming, and we had already considered expanding the town onto it. Instead, should you accept, your Company will be gifted the land for use in relocating your winter camp. Here, you will have ample space to settle, access to shops, and doctors… everything a wintering Company could desire.”

She didn’t mention brothels or taverns, Byleth notes, but knows better than to say. Despite that, she has to admit it sounds like the offer of a lifetime. Which means there has to be a catch.

As though reading her mind, Jeralt asks, “And your conditions?”

“Obviously, you cannot allow the Strikers to take precedence over the Knights. Handling both duties will be difficult on you, but I am certain you can manage.” Jeralt nods, and Rhea continues, “And I would appreciate it if you were to re-evaluate your numbers. You mentioned some members whose dispositions were questionable. I would prefer that you cast them aside, if this remains the case, and be more selective with their replacements now that you have the time.”

Jeralt waits half a minute before asking, “That’s all?”

“Yes. Though there is another offer I would like to make, the two are not conditional upon one another.”

“What’s the other offer?”

To Byleth’s discomfort, the Archbishop turns to her. From the corner of her eye, she sees Jeralt’s shoulders tense, and he stands up a little straighter. 

“I was watching Byleth a little earlier, as she gave an impromptu lesson to a few of our students out in the training hall.”

“Byleth?” Jeralt asks, cutting her a scathing look which Byleth wilts beneath. It’s clear he doesn’t approve, and just as clear they’ll have words about it later. “You want her to enroll in the Academy, is that it?” 

For some reason, the way he says that hurts. As though he doesn’t think she could handle being a student here. Then Rhea shakes her head.

“Not enroll, no. I believe she would be overqualified for that.”

“Then what?”

Rhea smiles as she meets Byleth’s eyes, and makes her proposition plain. It seems that Byleth has a choice to make after all. 

###  #

The Strikers pitch their tents by evening light; the sounds of their camaraderie dancing across the open field of the faire grounds. Someone’s built and lit a bonfire toward the center of the disorganized mass, and multiple long-poled torches are set about for light as the camp settles in for what could be a longer stay than they realize. 

Outside of the hustle and bustle, Jeralt, Luca and Byleth sit astride their mounts and watch as they come to terms with the new changes. 

“A professor,” Luca says again, like he can’t believe it. “Bye, honey, are you sure?”

Byleth’s fingers clench around her horse’s reins. “I can handle it,” she snaps, even as she wonders whether or not that’s true. 

“Hey,” says Luca, reaching across to pry one of her hands loose and take it. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

Byleth lets him have her hand, rejoicing in the touch even as she wants to pull away. “Do I? Because…”

She isn’t sure she can handle it, either. 

“Whether or not it’s a good idea, it’s what we have to deal with,” says Jeralt. “The Archbishop wants us to stay, that much is clear, and she’s offering the damned moon to get us to do it.”

“I doubt the kids are going to question it too hard. It’s a fantastic deal,” Luca says slowly, “But exactly how worried should I be, Jer?”

“Given that we’re doing what she  _ wants _ ?Be alert, but not worried. Especially as you’re essentially the Captain, now.”

“I was essentially the Captain before,” Luca replies with a smile belied by the worry in his soft violet eyes. “What’s changing, really?”

_ Everything _ , Byleth thinks, but doesn’t say. She keeps a hold of Luca’s hand, and her eyes on her father as he stoically refuses to look at her. In a short while she’ll need to ride back up to the monastery, accompanied by her gear and the little she owns which had been stored in the Company carts. Tomorrow, she’ll meet her coworkers and learn exactly what her new position expects of her. 

Tomorrow, she’ll no longer be a mercenary. 

That’s a little much to think about now, though. For now, all she wants is to stay here in this moment, with her family at her side, and try to ignore the feeling that she is being forced down a path she does not wish to follow. 

Still, she cannot shake the memory… 

###  #

“She’ll do it,” says Jeralt. 

Rhea and Byleth both look at him with surprise.

“ _ Dad _ ?” Byleth asks, both annoyed and unsure why he’d done that. Wasn’t he the one who wanted the least to do with these people?

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” He asks, lifting a brow. “I can read it all over your face. Besides, I’ll be taking the other offer. It isn’t like you’re being left behind.”

Though she didn’t think her face had said anything of the kind, Byleth can read between the lines. He wants her to go along with this. She doesn’t understand why, and doesn’t appreciate having the choice ripped away from her like that, though it does solve much of her inner turmoil over so sudden a change in their plans. 

Neither is Jeralt entirely wrong. Uncomfortable as many of these people have made her in the past day, the newfound idea that she could have a life outside the Company _ is  _ tempting. She only wishes that this choice would place her anywhere but here. Wishes weren’t terribly inclined to come true, however.

“I am glad to hear that,” Rhea says to Jeralt. Then, to Byleth, adds, “Though I would prefer an answer from you, yourself, Byleth.”

“I—” Her voice stalls out on repeating her father’s affirmative, and gaze wavers back to her father. He nods, clearly believing she is asking permission. That only serves to spur on Byleth’s question, instead. “Are you sure I’m qualified? Or that they’ll even listen to me? From what I saw, they’re all around my own age.”

“They seemed quite willing to listen just a short while ago,” says Rhea, “And yes, I am. You may not realize this yet, Byleth, but there is something about you which is… magnetic. I can sense in you a great strength of character and mind, which will serve you well in guiding our students toward their futures.”

Her grand pronouncement seems less silly when she adds, “As to your age, I do not believe you should worry. Many of the students here will be taking leadership responsibilities back in their homelands quite soon. They need to be used both to being in command of their peers and elders, while also being willing to listen to their juniors. This will set a fine example for them. Besides, age ought never factor higher than expertise and experience.” 

“And their titles…?” 

“The monastery bears no fealty to any of the royal families. We respect their titles within reason, but they are made well aware that the class structures they are all familiar with have little to no bearing upon our lands or within our walls. Your being common born should not affect their treatment of you here.”

That certainly answers a few of her outstanding questions, and settles more of Byleth’s trepidation. Again, her gaze flickers to her father, and this time his look over Rhea’s shoulder is more pointed and exasperate. 

“I accept,” she says, to Rhea, who appears none the wiser.

“I am so glad to hear it,” says Rhea, folding her hands over her heart. “Then let me be the first to officially welcome you home to Garreg Mach, Professor.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this monstrosity is already over a hundred pages. It feels like a benchmark. XD
> 
> Get ready for Hanneman, Manuela, and formal introductions~~


	7. A Life of Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth meets with the Academy's leadership to better understand her Academy duties. In doing so, she finds out that she has a very important choice to make, just as her worst fears about the situation are confirmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm significantly altering the way that the school works and the monastery's layout, this time around, so I apologize if the chapter is a little more... explain-y?

She stands in the cemetery, confused and alone. The cobblestoned path beneath her feet is cold as the wind sweeping across the open faced hillside. It gathers the skirts about her legs, whipping both the fabric and her long, long hair in all directions. 

Byleth pushes the vibrant green locks from her face, clenching her fingers into the mass to keep it tame as she peers about in all directions. There are only headstones and statuary, and a strange punctuation of perfectly still goats. 

Above her, the monastery proper is lost beneath a veil of darkness that ebbs and flows like fog. Or like smoke. As though summoned by her thoughts, a burning smell rises upon the air. In the distance, toward the back corner tower of the abbey, a flicker of orange ignites.

Byleth takes a step backward, then again. The flame gets stronger, as the smell of burning grows heavy and undeniable. 

Fire races around the tower, sketching a suggestion of shape and rooflines within the ever present darkness as the building is consumed. 

Mouth dry, and heart hammering, Byleth flees. They will blame this on her, she thinks. She is the new person here; the outsider. And, though she does not understand why, she feels a kinship to this moment. She feels as though this is happening as it happened before, and as it will happen again.

The path winds beneath her feet, moving her ever further into the maze of graves. 

Though a thought nibbles at the back of her mind, trying to remind her that she does not need to stick to the path, no part of her body obeys. She follows the stone trail until her lungs hurt, and her legs are jelly, and still there is no sign of an exit. 

Then her toes catch upon a flagstone and Byleth stumbles to a stop, dropping upon her knees. Her hands sink into wet grass, and her hair flops over her face to conceal her as she pants. 

It's then she realizes that the burning scent is gone, and so is the cold. A breeze plucks at her simple cotton shift, containing none of its previous fury. This touch is gentle and sweet; like young a child begging for attention.

Byleth looks up through a veil of hair that glows faintly in the moonlight, and fixes upon the tombstone nested between the oak tree’s roots. A woman in white kneels before the grave, alarmingly real and alarmingly see-through all at once. As the woman glances over her shoulder, Byleth’s vision blurs and fades, until it resolves upon a familiar throne room and blank jade floor. 

“A dream?” she mumbles, barely able to believe it, though in retrospect it makes sense. 

It wasn’t a dream, though. More like a nightmare.

“Loud,” whines the girl upon the throne. 

Byleth sits up on her knees, all the while staring warily the girl determinately squeezing her eyes closed. 

“You are so very loud,” says the girl, punctuated by a deep, ripping yawn. “Can you not see… I’m trying to.. sleep…?”

“So was I,” Byleth mutters as she sinks back down onto the steps of the dais and tries to push her fear aside. 

**Day 17 Great Tree Moon, Year 1180**

Waking in the abbey guest room is no less strange for happening the second day in a row. Given the short notice of her employment, Byleth’s official room—once belonging to her successor—wasn’t ready the night before. That was fine by her, except that none of it is fine. Not really. Without Jeralt or Luca or any of her fellow mercs present, sleep was hard to come by. Though she can’t remember any dreams she might have had, the weariness dragging at the backs of her eyes and the pounding in her skull implies they weren’t pleasant. 

It’s barely dawn, but Byleth gives herself a quick scrub down in the wash basin, then gets dressed. Her old leathers had been returned to her yesterday evening, with a note of apology for how long they took. The clothes had been mended as well as cleaned, and everything looked, if not precisely ‘new,’ then somewhat more gently used. 

Without any idea of how to proceed beyond Rhea’s vague instructions of “you’ll meet with Seteth in the morning,” Byleth goes directly to the man’s office; pausing a few times to ask directions of passing guards. 

She expects the office to be locked and empty, but when she arrives there’s a flicker of orange light beneath the heavy wooden door. After a second’s pause, she raps her knuckles against the door. 

“Enter.” 

On the other side is a chamber only slightly wider than the guest quarters where she’s staying. Three of the walls are lined with bookshelves except for two spaces where there are a single window and a fireplace, respectively. Two comfortable looking chairs sit on her side of a wide oaken desk covered in papers, more books, ink pots, and a selection of feather quills. Seteth himself occupies the high-backed chair opposite her, hand poised above a page he’d been scribbling upon and head lifted to examine her. 

His gaze drifts over her cuirass and weapons, and suddenly Byleth wonders if she ought to have left her armor back in the guest room. 

“Byleth,” Seteth says, sitting up straight. He begins to shut his book, then thinks better of it. “I was not expecting you so early.”

“I can come back…”

“No. That will not be necessary. It is good to have another early riser about. Take a seat.” Plucking a small pounce pot from the desk, Seteth gently sprinkles the page he’d been using as Byleth closes the door and perches in one of the chairs across the desk. Once the ink is dry, he closes the book, sets it and the pot aside, then braids his fingers together as he returns his attention to her. “So, then. I am told _you_ are to be our new professor?”

Unsure why he phased it like a question, Byleth answers with one of her own, “Yes?”

“You sound uncertain about that.”

“It was only decided yesterday.”

“Mm.” Whether that was agreement or disapproval, Byleth isn’t certain. Seteth’s presence is still easier than most to bear, and easier in general than it had been the last time she had seen him. Whatever this feeling is that she’s getting from the Crest Bearers, his assertion that it’s potency would fade is proving true. That’s something, at least. 

Seteth thumps his twinned knuckles twice upon the desk in thought. “Alright. Let us start at the beginning, then. You will forgive me, I hope, if I go too slowly. It has been several years since I needed to induct a new professor.”

Byleth nods.

“What do you know of the Officer’s Academy?”

Carefully, Byleth allows a half-guess to drip from her mouth. “It’s a school run by the monastery, meant to refine skills in leadership, combat, and tactics.”

“That is part of it,” Seteth agrees. “I had thought Jeralt would have told you more, but that is the usual public impression of the place.

“Our Academy was founded over a hundred years ago in no small part as a response to a string of invasions from Almyra, Sreng, and Duscar. The Church believed then, as now, that all the peoples of Fodlan would better defend ourselves were we to set aside petty differences and learn to function as a collective. As the Goddess intended.”

“So they made a school?”

Seteth’s smile is small and cold. “You may have noticed that the majority of our students are drawn from the nobility?” 

Byleth had noticed that. Well, except… “Only the majority?”

“There are always a few who are not, and several more whose situations are somewhat more… nebulous than many outside their particular social spheres would understand. That is neither here nor there, at this time. The fact remains that the Academy was and is primarily geared toward both ensuring that the future leadership of Fodlan are well educated to their roles and duties, and as an attempt to foster some amount of respect and consideration between them.”

“Flayn mentioned that you divide them into Houses based upon their countries of origin,” Byleth says, before thinking better of it. “Isn’t that counter-productive?”

“We would need to divide the students, regardless, so that no one professor is unduly burdened, and that each student has sufficient attention. However, Flayn’s point is a fair one. Unfortunately, all documented attempts at such desegregation have gone… poorly. In no small part I feel that this is due to the students’ families having an attachment to the Academy, and a loyalty to the specific House they themselves attended, and expect their children to attend—but bear in mind that is _private_ speculation.”

Seteth sighs at that last admission, shaking his head. “Perhaps we will try again, in another year or two. This is hardly the time for such experimentation, however.”

Byleth wonders why it isn’t the time, but before she can air the question, he continues, “The reason I bring this up is that you must keep in mind that you will play a role not only in guiding your students’ education, but their development as a team both inside your House, and within the Academy itself.”

“ _My_ House?”

“Ah!” Seteth looks momentarily surprised. “I did skip that part. My apologies. Yes, each of our three primary professors are charged with supervising one of the three Houses. Manuela and Hanneman have requested that they be the ones to go over class scheduling with you later this morning, but suffice to say that you will be expected to set objective goals for the students of your House, sign off on their training regiments, act as their primary advisor, and, of course, lead their unit during field missions.”

Trying to breathe through a sudden drowning feeling that had come over her, Byleth latches on to the one part of his speech that she feels capable of handling: “Field missions?”

Wryly, Seteth says, “This is an _Officer’s_ Academy. All the students have passed preliminary combat exams, and are expected to participate in live training, both as members of their own unit, and as part of larger battalions, each leading their own regiment. Obviously, outside of official training skirmishes we cannot anticipate what form field missions may take. Some years there is little need for battalion work, and others… well, I am certain I have no need to explain to you of the troubles one may encounter in Fodlan at large.”

“No, Archdeacon.”

Seteth slowly arches one eyebrow. “Please, call me Seteth. While we show Lady Rhea a certain amount of deference in our daily lives, we prefer to keep the monastery largely unburdened by the chains of caste or title.”

“But…” Byleth struggles to form the rest of her question. She had tried raising the same objection with Rhea yesterday, though the woman seemed convinced it wouldn’t come to bear. Is Seteth of the same mind?

“Ah. Yes, the Students can be somewhat more difficult in this regard,” says Seteth, practically reading her mind. “I admit, we walk a delicate line when it comes to our charges. While the Church is not beholden to any one state, and therefore are not _technically_ required to recognize any authority on the part of our noble patrons, keeping the peace is often a matter of drawing a delicate line of respect for their cultures and our need to maintain our autonomy. You will find that some of them take to this very well, while others… struggle.”

“So I shouldn’t use their titles?”

“We will leave that choice up to you, though I would carefully consider what precedent you choose to set.”

It still doesn’t sound believable. Though, when she considers the display she witnessed the morning prior she supposes it _could_ be true. Certainly, the students had seemed more like a collection of equals than she had ever imagined a group of nobility might. 

Not that she really had any experience to compare it to. 

“So… how does this help them develop relationships outside their own House?” 

Sounding like he was waiting for her to ask, Seteth says, “Most of the indoor classes are mixed. Your fellow professors will explain more, but the students often rotate through subjects and you will find yourself working with students from the other Houses often, if not necessarily every day. In addition, their dorms are quite mixed, and students are encouraged to expand their social circles outside of class hours. For example, if only one of your students is aiming for an archery proficiency—I heard the pun, yes, it was unintentional—but none of their fellow Housemates are, you may suggest they seek out students from another house for training tips and study groups. I am certain you can come up with other ideas as you become more familiar.”

Byleth nodded, though inwardly she reeled. She _had_ accepted the position—well, she had accepted because her father ordered her to. But she’d believed, at the time, it would be like training the Company’s recruits. This, however, sounds far more involved.

A distant bell rings, the notes merry and bright. Seteth glances vaguely in that direction. “Morning bells,” he says, “The dining hall has officially opened for breakfast. I would assume you have not yet eaten?”

She shakes her head.

“Very well. Unless you have any further questions on these matters—” he pauses long enough for her to shake her head again, “—Then let us proceed to a short tour of the facility. We shall end at the dining hall, and afterward I will turn you over to Manuela and Hanneman.”

### #

The next hour blurs as Seteth marches her through a dizzying series of hallways and buildings. He explains what each is for, and various rules she must be sure to obey. Though Byleth tries, she isn’t certain she’s retained many at all. In the end, only a few places stand out.

The abbey, which heavily resembles a Keep in any standard castle, is the apparent heart of the monastery. Its downstairs is dominated by the large “main hall” primarily devoted to the basic business of everyday life. The large tables there are open for every resident’s use, provided they keep to a certain level of decorum and pick up after themselves. It’s where many students gather during the evening hours to play games or study, and the Knights often gamble (of which the archdeacon clearly disapproves.) 

The second story holds the Archbishop’s audience hall and rectory, Hannemon’s laboratory, the knight-captain’s quarters, and the first floor of the library. The last gives Byleth pause as, when they stop inside the door she swears there’s a faint trace of smoke upon the air. She eyes the oil lamps set into the wooden columns, and silently follows Seteth onward.

The Archdeacon doesn’t bother taking her to the third or fourth abbey floors, but explains that those are indeed living quarters for the majority of the nuns and monks who live in Garreg Mach, followed of course by the Archbishop’s tower. 

“I can show you the Cathedral, of course,” says Seteth as they pause together before the great bridge leaping the mountain chasm, “But I believe it is quite difficult to miss, and you are likely hungry. Would you prefer to skip it or—?”

“I’ll see it later,” Byleth says, perhaps a touch too quickly. Though beautiful, the massive building sends a shiver down her spine. It looks nothing like the cathedral back in Myriddon, and yet the memory of that encounter is fresh enough to put her off the idea of going there for a while, yet.

“Very well,” Seteth agrees, and instead takes her once more out the left-hand passage which eventually leads to the training grounds. 

Before they reach them, he turns left again into a long rectangular courtyard facing three large rooms with their doors flung wide to the chilled morning air. Inside, she can see rows of tables and benches, shelves filled with books, and several chalkboards each. 

“These are the main Academy classrooms, one for each House. It’s here your students will gather for morning announcements and schedules, and where you will primarily teach.”

Then they’re on to the training hall, where Seteth introduces her to the armsmaster in charge of the facility. Byleth immediately forgets the man’s name, far too overwhelmed with everything else going on, but understands that she should speak with him if she needs equipment for training purposes, or to schedule closed training sessions.

The baths and sauna are very nearby, which surprises Byleth as she’d thought them further away. However, as they pass she realizes the original directions Jeralt had given her that first night had only taken her around a long way, purposely designed to keep her away from the training hall. Irked, she barely notices when Seteth gestures to a door and says, “And these will be your quarters. I believe they should be ready by this evening, so you ought to prepare to move in shortly.”

Byleth lurches to a halt, snapping herself out of her thoughts to really look at their surroundings. 

They’re about a block off from the bathing house, just behind the schoolrooms. Seteth indicates a long row of apartments on a raised foundation, backed against one of the interior defensive walls. A second story of apartments sits partway on top of the wall itself, the last in the number overlooking a raised courtyard with a small chapel. 

“Manuela’s apartment is on the far end, near the greenhouse,” Seteth is saying, “And Hannemon has taken the apartment upstairs. They will give you the list of rules the students are expected to obey while on the premises, though we station the professors nearby more for cases of emergency, you understand.”

Byleth nods, and the tour moves on as Seteth continues, “You will quickly find that room assignments are one area in which we made certain allowances for class. Most of the nobility are in the upper apartments, while most of those down below are from the common classes. That is not a hard rule, but we found it tends to help keep the peace, somewhat.”

Just beyond the end of the housing, down two seperate flights of stairs, is a large glass structure that seems utterly out of place with the rest of the monastery. Inside, though the glass is foggy with condensation, she can see a dizzying array of plants in all shapes and sizes; some of which are in full bloom despite the lingering winter chill this far up the mountain.

“The greenhouse,” says Seteth, “We encourage everyone to make use of it, though a fair amount of space is reserved for the kitchens and healers’ use, as well as our patch of over-winter vegetables.”

He pauses, rubbing his lips together as he considers the building. As his silence stretches, Byleth looks past him across a much larger, open area braced between the exterior curtain wall and a retaining wall behind them, into which a large stairwell ascends. Above them is a low building where she can hear muted conversation carried on the wind, the clattering of cookware, and smell a variety of foods which amount to “breakfast.” 

It has to be the dining hall. What draws her attention more, however, is the large pond the greenhouse sits against, complete with a fishing pier and a tackle shed where a man is setting out baskets of bait. 

“Ah, yes, the pond,” says her guide. “It is naturally fed—older than the monastery itself, in fact—but we have to keep it stocked ourselves. You are more than welcome to fish, if that interests you, though we do ask that you release anything beneath a certain poundage, or anything you do not intend to eat.”

“Of course.”

He nods, then clears his throat and gestures to the greenhouse again. “As I was saying, this is the greenhouse, and just behind us here is the dining hall. This is as good a time as any to bring up the students’ chores.”

“Chores?”

“Yes. You may have trouble with some of them at first for… obvious reasons, but at Garreg Mach we believe it benefits the students a great deal to understand what it is that others do for them on a daily basis. We have devised a list of chores which they are expected to help with. Over the first several weeks they will work as House units, taking turns at each job. That’s helping in the greenhouse, cleaning and serving in the kitchens, mucking the stables, tending the library, and stocking the armory. Afterward, the three of you will assign individual students to tasks based upon their temperament and talents.”

The more Seteth says, the more Byleth appreciated both the man’s curt attitude, and the monastery’s policies. Though she imagines she’ll face quite a bit of resistance to this indeed, particularly from the higher born, it isn’t a bad idea. If only it wasn’t up to her to implement it.

Rather than take her into the dining hall, Seteth shows her around to a small marketplace just inside the main gates, which includes a tiny smithy, and then to the stables just behind. Next are the Knights’ quarters and training hall, standing sentinel above the great sloping grounds of the monastery graveyard. 

It was there that they caught Jeralt giving an introductory address to a group of gathered Knights. She and Seteth stop to listen for a moment, though no one seems to take notice. Jeralt’s attention is for his new charges, and the Knights themselves are very obviously split between disbelief, acceptance, and disdain for the change in command. Seteth hums briefly, brow furrowed, before gesturing for Byleth to follow him back into the abbey proper.

By the time they make it back around to the dining hall—which connects to the reception hall, she finds—the sun is properly up and the monastery is buzzing to life. Several of the students are scattered through the room, sitting in clumps and singles as they shovel food into their mouths. Some have their noses in books, while others are chatting, and more still sleepy-eyed and dozing over their porridge. 

More than a few of them fall silent as Byleth trails past in Seteth’s wake, the man still quietly explaining to her, “This, of course, is the dining hall. They serve meals at three regular times a day; listen for the bells. If you need to schedule anything specific, or missed a scheduled meal, ask for Millarna. The dining hall is her domain, and when the students are helping they are under her command.”

Byleth nods, both to Seteth and to the woman he gestured toward. She’s short and plump, this Millarna, with friendly pink cheeks and a head of tightly coiled auburn hair. The woman nods politely and asks, “Two for you, Seteth?”

“Please.”

As the woman darts around her own people to fill two plates with a variety of breakfast foods from the steaming cast iron serving plates, a pair of older individuals enter the room and immediately make for them. “Ah, good timing,” says Seteth.

The elder of the pair, a reedy gentleman with finely combed ash-and-cinnamon hair and a thin pair of spectacles perched on his beak-like nose, presses his hand over his heart and bows slightly to both of them. “Good morning, Seteth. And you must be Byleth, I presume?”

“Well, I don’t know who else she could be,” says his female companion in tones that might be teasing or chiding—Byleth truly can’t decide. Though younger than the man, this woman is still probably around Jeralt’s age with pretty dark hair chopped around her chin, striking orange makeup and a dress cut to reveal just about everything. Byleth finds herself blushing, And she’d thought the strange girl’s outfit was impractical!

The woman extends her hand to Byleth without hesitation. Her grip is firm, and warm as the smile on her face. “Aren’t you just as cute as a button,” the woman says, “I have to admit, I was hoping I would get the chance to meet this mysterious mercenary the kids were going on about the other day. You’re not exactly what I expected but, then, who ever is?”

“Um… thank you?”

The woman winks as she drops her hand. Beside her, the man is shaking his head in disgust.

Seteth sighs. “Byleth, allow me to introduce Professors Hanneman and Manuela.”

“Charmed,” says Manuela.

“A pleasure,” says Hanneman. 

Byleth forces herself to say, “Nice to meet you both.” That seems appropriate enough. Right?

“Here we are,” says Millarna from behind the counter. Seteth takes his plate and passes Byleth hers. He fixes the other two professors with a hard look. “If you two are up and ready, I believe the three of you have much to discuss…?”

“Leave it to us,” says Manuela. Seteth nods to her, then to Byleth, and quickly walks away. When he’s gone, Manuela says to the two remaining, “Why don’t we get our breakfasts as well, then we can move this to the infirmary. There’s no one in there, and it’s got enough space for us to work where we can actually hear ourselves think.”

“And it’s a sight cleaner than your office,” Hanneman remarks with a scoff. 

“Well you don’t have to be rude about it,” Manuela says flatly. 

As Hanneman begins to say something else—likely nasty—Byleth cuts in, “I don’t know where the infirmary is.”

“Oh! I guess Seteth missed it on your tour. That’s fine. We’ll just be killing two birds with one stone, as they say.” Manuela smiles. In a matter of moments they’ve gotten their own breakfasts and the three of them adjourn. 

### #

The infirmary is set inside the old repurposed chapel on the same tier as the bathhouse and sauna. Byleth hadn’t been paying much attention when they passed it, and kicks herself now as Manuela leads the way into a white-washed room with curtained divisions between a row of beds, and an assortment of cabinets stocked with medical supplies lining all available wallspace. 

They pass down the empty central corridor to the back where a large circular table rests with four chairs and enough space for them to sit. 

“So, Byleth, a professorship at your age?” Manuela is saying, “You must be extraordinarily talented. Or else you began your own training extraordinarily young.”

Though Manuela’s tone doesn’t make those statements seem like questions, it still feel like she’s waiting for an answer. Byleth sets her food down and takes a chair as the others do, shrugging. “I’m _well_ trained, and I started a little young but nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And modest, too?” Manuela’s eyes twinkle in delight. “I’m not sure how I’ll deal with that.”

“As you can clearly see, Manuela is allergic to modesty in all its forms,” Hanneman sniffed. 

The woman scoffed. “I know what I’m worth. That’s hardly a bad thing.”

These two certainly butted heads a lot. Quickly, Byleth interjected, “Seteth said there were rules and schedules to go over?”

“Ah, that’s right,” said Hannemon, warming to the subject change as though he wasn’t the one who’d begun the fight, “I would assume this is your first time teaching?”

“Outside of arms training, yes.”

“Don’t sound so dour about it,” cooed Manuela, “If you can train them to swing a sword, you can handle a classroom. Trust me. I came into this position from theatre of all things. Just lifting your chin and looking them in the eye will go a long way to establishing your authority.”

“Though having actual education to back it up matters a little more, I would say.”

Manuela narrows her eyes at Hannemon. “Are you trying to imply something?”

“I either say what I mean, or I say nothing at all, Manuela. Perhaps if you were less suspicious—”

Byleth cleared her throat, and the two snapped back to attention again. 

“Apologies, Byleth,” says Hannemon, whose cheeks are stained slightly pink. “As Manuela said, your experience there should help with your duties here. In fact, Charles—that is, your predecessor—had already outlined most of his lesson plans for the first three months. We left them in your quarters for review.”

“Of course, you’ll probably need to make alterations. I’m happy to help you with that, if you like,” offers Manuela.

“As am I,” agrees Hannemon.

“Okay,” Byleth says, when it seems like they’re waiting on her to say something. It feels like they’re missing a few steps, however. “That doesn’t quite… Mm. Seteth said something about class rotations and chores—”

“Ah!” exclaims Hannemon. “That’s right. We did sort of skip straight to the end, there.”

To Byleth’s relief, the pair leave off their fighting—mostly—as they lean into their explanations. 

Every morning begins with a period spent in the class’ homeroom where the professor can check in with their students, make any important announcements, and give the students warm-up work for the day. After that, there are two lectures periods during which some students may switch classes for specific lectures. Then follows the midday meal, taken in the dining hall, and two more lecture periods, then chores, and a final homeroom session where students can ask questions or get help with any work they didn’t complete during the day. 

“The ending session isn’t usually mandatory for students to attend,” Manuela says, “By mid-year I usually only have one or two who bother showing up, so I get to spend it grading or doing… whatever.”

“Of course, you _can_ make it mandatory if you care to take a more _active_ approach in teaching your students,” puts in Hannemon. 

Manuela sucks in a breath. Before she can reply, Byleth butts in, “What about training, though? Isn’t weapons practice a major part in this?”

“Lectures,” says Hannemon, then explains, “We call them that, but they take many forms. Some of those periods are spent in the training hall, and some are even here, in the infirmary.”

“I teach a unit on field medicine in the spring and fall,” says Manuela. 

“Now, that said…” Hannemon trails off for a moment, sharing a nearly friendly look with Manuela, before he continues, “The three of us had it worked out so that we were teaching to our strengths. My area of expertise is, of course, in crestology, offensive magic, and history. I’m also a good shot with a bow.”

“Whereas I am better equipped to teach medicine, both mundane and mystical, and literature. My physical combat skills are, admittedly, somewhat lacking.”

For once, Hannemon doesn’t jump on the excuse to needle Manuela. Instead, he surprises Byleth by turning somewhat wistful and saying, “Charles was the muscle of our group. He mostly taught combat tactics, historical warfare, and live weapons training.”

All at once, Byleth feels like a weight has been taken off her shoulders. “Then I should be able to handle his classes fairly well.”

“Is that so?” Manuela’s face lights up as Byleth nods. “Oh thank the Goddess. I thought that might be why they hired you on, in specific. I didn’t want to have to reschedule everything when I just got all my plans finished.”

“Manuela,” Hannemon scolds.

“What is it _now_?” She thumps the table lightly with one fist, glaring at him. “I didn’t say I was glad that Charles died or anything, just that it was a lot of work to redo if her skills didn’t match up so well. We only have a few days, and a good portion of that will be spent at his funeral.”

Hannemon’s dour look turns gloomier still, then breaks with an explosive sigh. “I suppose you have a point, at that. Byleth, do you _mind_ handling the brunt of weapons training? That will be a lot of time outdoors and—”

He cuts off as Byleth surprises them all by laughing, quietly. 

She wipes the smile off her face as quickly as it had come. “It won’t be any problem, professor.”

“Good, good,” says Hannemon. “Of course, when we reconvene in three months we could change that around, should it become a problem.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Manuela leans her elbows on the table, over the remains of her breakfast, as she grins. “On to the better question. Which House will you lead?”

“Huh? Er—you mean you aren’t already assigned?”

“We _were_ ,” Hannemon says, nodding, “Usually, the three of us rotate between Houses every year. That way, none of us get attached to any one House in particular.”

Manuela picks up the explanation saying, “But, since you’re new and relatively inexperienced, we thought it would be nice to let you have your pick. There might be a House whose students you feel better equipped to handle your first year.”

Though Byleth thinks she ought to feel even more relieved at this, she finds her anxiety irrationally mounting. 

She gets to _choose_ ? Well, she _had_ wanted a choice in something. That was why the professorship had appealed to her, however momentarily. So why does the idea of picking a set of students feel so… weird?

“Here.” Manuela leans back in her chair to grab a small, twine-stitched booklet from a counter behind her. She hands it to Byleth. “This is a copy of all this years’ student profiles. They’re organized by house. Why don’t you take some time to look these over and speak with the students, or at least the House Leaders, and get back with us?”

Hannemon begins, “Just try to have an answer by this evening—” 

“This evening? That’s far too soon. She should at least be allowed to sleep on it.”

“As you said yourself, Manuela, time is pressing. We’ll need time to set the classrooms back to rights, and there _is_ the funeral to consider.”

“I—” Manuela sighs. “I suppose you have a point. Byleth, can you be ready by this evening?”

“I think so,” she lies. 

“Good. Now that that’s settled…”

From there, the conversation drifts into the various sets of rules Byleth will need to memorize both for teaching the students, knowing what the students are and aren’t allowed to do, and for how to conduct herself around them. They give her a few other small, printed pamphlets to take with her when she’s finally allowed some air and room to breathe. 

Outside, Byleth stands just beyond the door with the sunlight basking down on her, and wonders again just what she’s gotten herself into. 

### #

Finding the students is harder today than it was the day before. There are only a handful of students in the training facility when she pokes her head in: Sylvain, Felix, a very tiny boy with blue hair and a decent punch from the look of things, and a much larger blonde boy fielding the punches with good natured encouragement. None of them seem to notice her slipping around through the arms room, as Flayn showed her, or slipping back out the same path once she’d checked the yard. There was only one person back there who seemed to be a student, but the blue-haired girl with deep bags beneath her eyes looked like she wanted to be left alone with the old horses, and Byleth was happy to oblige.

Byleth then wandered off down the row of apartments, through the greenhouse, and was headed up to the dining hall when Flayn came bounding down the stairs toward her. 

“Byleth! How joyful it is to see you again! I have only just had the news from my brother. Tell me, is it true that you intend to stay with us?”

“It is,” Byleth agrees, both a little taken aback at and deeply moved by the girl’s excitement. “How much did he tell you?”

“Everything, but he said I am not to speak of it just yet,” Flayn replies, pressing a finger briefly over her lips. “He wants you to be given the space to meet everyone before opinions are drawn.”

It takes Byleth a moment to understand why this might be, but only a moment. He would, of course, know about the choice she had been presented with and it seemed in-keeping with Archdeacon’s demeanour to want her to make that choice made fairly. If the students knew beforehand, that might impact the way they presented themselves one way or another. 

There was an equal argument to be made the opposite direction, but Byleth decided not to concern herself with that. That wasn’t the hand she was dealt. 

“You wouldn’t have happened to have seen Dimitri, Claude, or Edelgard around, would you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I passed Dimitri on the stairs to the library this morning, and have not seen him since. It is possible he is no longer there, of course. However, I only just saw Claude a few minutes ago, headed toward the market.”

“And Edelgard?”

“Her, I have not seen,” Flayn admits, shaking her head. “Though I have not known her for long, I feel as though this is not an unusual behaviour for the Princess. She and Hubert have already shown a tendency to disappear into far-flung corners.”

“The Princess?” Byleth asks a touch too sharply for her own 

Flayn stares at her with a surprise that is as obvious as it is short-lived. Then she smiles and bobs her head. “Oh, yes. You did not know?”

“I… had suspicions but…”

“But it is difficult to believe you are in the presence of royalty,” Flayn finishes for her, somehow skipping the condescension Byleth might have expected from anyone else. The girl gestures to the thin booklet held in Byleth’s arms. “May I?”

“Am I supposed to let…?”

“Under normal circumstances, surely not. However, I helped my brother to make these—one for each faculty member—after the applications had been approved for the year. I am already quite familiar with their contents.”

Still, Byleth hesitates a moment longer before handing the book over. Had anyone else made the claim, Byleth would have assumed the worst; that they were lying, or somehow manipulating her. But the energy radiating off Flayn is cheerful, honest, and utterly pure. It’s almost unbelievable in its own right. 

Flayn doesn’t seem to notice her hesitation. She leads Byleth fully up the steps to the small patio outside the mostly empty dining hall, then tilts the booklet so that they can both see the pages. 

Each one of the booklet’s thick, hand-pressed pages contains a brief but detailed account of a student; one each, front to back. In the upper left-hand corner is the student’s name in large, bold script, and to the right-hand someone has inked their likeness. There’s something stiff about the drawings which render them slightly strange, but for the most part Byleth thinks she could match each well enough to the faces she’d seen the day before. 

“I did those,” Flayn says as she finds the page she’d been looking for. 

“They’re very good.” 

“Thank you! But they are all copies. Each student has to send in a small artist rendering of themselves with their application for security reasons.”

Byleth nods, figuring that made about as much sense as anything else. Finally Flayn stops on a page with Edelgard’s name and picture, and lifts it so that Byleth can see all the information present. 

“Crown Princess of the Adrestian Empire,” Byleth reads, her stomach turning. It doesn’t matter that she’d suspected as much. Having it confirmed that she’d not only spent the better part of a day in this girl’s company, but that she’d been so informal and brazen with her is a little… off putting. 

To distract herself, Byleth reads the rest of the file. In it she finds Edeglard’s birthdate, a very short biography, her primary focus of studies prior to the academy and the student’s stated goals when they applied for the Academy. There’s also a small, black symbol of some kind drawn beneath Edelgard’s picture, followed by the letters “mnr.”

“Does this bother you?”

“It is somewhat… intimidating,” Byleth admits, softly.

“Is it?” Flayn tips her head to one side, thoughtful and confused. “To think that a mercenary such as yourself would be intimidated by so tiny a thing as a title.”

“Titles are neither tiny nor insignificant where I’m from. I knew there would be nobles, but _royalty…_? To be honest with you, I'm not sure I'll be able to handle that.”

Taken aback, Flayn withdraws the book. “I wonder, then, which House you could possibly pick?”

“What do you mean?”

Rather than answer, Flayn finds two more marks within the book, holding them with her fingers as she once again presents a page to Byleth. 

She doesn’t wish to look, but she has to. Byleth knows this, and still is not entirely braced for the words she reads there. 

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. _Prince_ Dimitri, she corrects herself. _Crown_ Prince of Faerghus. 

This is followed shortly by Flayn’s final mark, the gold-lined pages of Claude’s profile. Claude von Riegan. His page comes with no title, but Byleth knows her politics well enough to realize that he wouldn’t necessarily have one. Not _yet_. Coming from the Alliance, and being a von Reigan…

“He’s the new heir,” she guesses, stomach flipping. 

Flayn nods mutely as she closes the book, handing it back to Byleth. As her fingers close around the thin tome, Byleth feels like there are metaphorical fingers closing around her neck. 

All three of the prospective house leaders came with their own minefield of politics, where Byleth is concerned. No matter what Seteth has said, or how they treated her the day before, Byleth understands well where her place is in their worlds. She is a mercenary, through and through. Common born, and commonly raised. Perhaps she isn’t the lowest personage on the pole, but she is damned close. The wrong thing said or done, at absolute worst, could mean her head later in life. 

The question _isn’t_ , “who does she _want_ to teach?” 

No, the _question_ is, “who can she survive teaching?”


End file.
